THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


The  Tower  of  Oblivion 


BY 

OLIVER  ONIONS 


AUTHOR  OF 
"A  CASE   IN   CAMERA,"  ETC. 


U3eto 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 

BY 
OLIVER  ONIONS 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  November,  1921. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


To 

NIGEL  PLAYFAIR 

and  the  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of 

"THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA  COMPANY" 

(Lyric    Theatre,    Hammersmith,   June    sth,    1920) 

who  were  so  constantly  his 

"pleasure   and   soft  repose" 

while   the    following   pages   were 

writing,    this    book    is    dedicated 

by 

their      friend      and      well-wisher 
THE  AUTHOR 

Kensington       -  1921 


2046742 


CONTENTS 

ENGLAND 

PACK 

THE   SIDE-SLIP i 

THE  STERN  CHASE 57 

THE  STRAPHANGER 91 

THE  DOUBLE  CROSS 129 

THE  PIVOT 181 

FRANCE 

THE  LONG  SPLICE 207 

THE  EVEN  KEEL 261 

THE  CUT-OUT 327 

THE  DESERT  ISLAND 371 

THE  HOME  STRETCH 407 


ENGLAND 


PART  I 
THE  SIDESTEP 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


I  think  it  is  Edgar  Allan  Poe  who  says  that  while  a  plain 
thing  may  on  occasion  be  told  with  a  certain  amount  of  elabo- 
ration of  style,  one  that  is  unusual  in  its  very  nature  is  best 
related  in  the  simplest  terms  possible.  I  shall  adopt  the 
second  of  these  methods  in  telling  this  story  of  my  friend, 
Derwent  Rose.  And  I  will  begin  straight  away  with  that 
afternoon  of  the  spring  of  last  year  when,  with  my  own 
eyes,  I  first  saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  the  beginning  of  the 
change  in  him. 

The  Lyonnesse  Club  meets  in  an  electric-lighted  basement- 
suite  a  little  way  off  the  Strand,  and  as  I  descended  the 
stairs  I  saw  him  in  the  narrow  passage.  He  was  standing 
almost  immediately  under  an  incandescent  lamp  that  pro- 
jected on  its  curved  petiole  from  the  wall.  The  light  shone 
brilliantly  on  his  hair,  where  hardly  a  hint  of  grey  or  trace 
of  thinness  yet  showed,  and  his  handsome  brow  and  straight 
nose  were  in  full  illumination  and  the  rest  of  his  face  in 
sharp  shadow.  He  wore  a  dark  blue  suit  with  an  exquisitely 
pinned  soft  white  silk  collar,  to  which,  as  I  watched,  his 
fingers  moved  once ;  and  he  was  examining  with  deep  atten- 
tion a  print  that  hung  on  the  buff-washed  wall. 

I  spoke  behind  him.  "Hello,  Derry !  One  doesn't  often 
see  your  face  here." 

Quietly  as  I  spoke,  he  started.  Ordinarily  he  had  very 
straight  and  steady  grey-blue  eyes,  alert  and  receptive,  but 
for  some  seconds  they  looked  from  me  to  the  print  and 
from  the  print  to  me,  irresolutely  and  with  equally  divided 


2  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

attention.  One  would  almost  have  thought  that  he  had 
heard  his  name  called  from  a  great  distance.  Then  his  eyes 
settled  finally  on  the  print,  and  he  repeated  my  last  words 
over  his  shoulder. 

"My  face?     Here?  .  .  .  No." 

"What's  the  picture  ?     Anything  special  ?" 

Still  without  moving  his  eyes  from  it  he  replied,  "The  pic- 
ture? You  ought  to  know  more  about  it  than  I — it's  your 
Club,  not  mine — 

And  he  continued  his  absorbed  scrutiny. 

Now  I  had  passed  that  picture  scores  of  times  before  and 
had  never  found  it  worth  a  glance.  It  was  a  common  collo- 
type reproduction  of  a  stodgy  night-effect,  a  full  moon  in  a 
black-leaded  sky  with  reflections  in  water  to  match — price 
perhaps  five  shillings.  Then  suddenly,  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  I  realised  where  his  interest  in  it  lay.  He  was  not 
looking  at  the  picture  at  all.  In  the  polished  glass,  that 
made  an  excellent  mirror  in  that  concentrated  light,  I  had 
seen  his  eyes  earnestly  fixed  on  his  own  eyes,  his  cheeks, 
his  hair,  his  chin.  .  .  . 

Well,  Derwent  Rose  had  better  reason  than  most  men  for 
looking  at  himself  in  a  picture-glass  if  he  chose.  Indeed  it 
had  already  struck  me  that  that  afternoon  he  looked  even 
more  than  ordinarily  fresh  and  handsome.  Let  me,  before 
we  go  any  further,  describe  his  personal  appearance  to  you. 

He  had,  as  I  knew,  passed  his  forty-fifth  birthday  in  the 
preceding  January ;  but  he  would  have  been  taken  anywhere 
for  at  least  ten  years  younger.  You  will  believe  this  when 
I  tell  you  that  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine,  that  is  to  say  in  the 
year  1914,  he  had  walked  into  a  recruiting-office,  had  given 
his  age  as  twenty-eight,  received  the  compliments  of  the 
R.A.M.C.  major  who  had  examined  him,  had  joined  an  in- 
fantry battalion  as  a  private,  risen  to  the  rank  of  company- 
sergeant-major,  and  had  hardly  looked  a  day  older  when  he 
had  come  out  again,  with  a  herring-bone  of  chevrons  on  his 
cuff  and  a  captain's  stars  on  his  shoulder — not  so  much  as 
scratched.  He  was  just  over  six  feet  high,  with  the  shoul- 
ders of  a  paviour  and  the  heart  and  lung  capacity  of  a  diver. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  3 

Had  you  not  been  told  that  he  wrote  novels  you  would  have 
thought  that  he  ran  a  ranch.  His  frame  was  a  perfectly  bal- 
anced combination  of  springiness  and  dead-lift  power  of 
muscle ;  and  to  see  those  grey-blue  eyes  that  looked  into 
yours  out  of  unwrinkled  lids  was  to  wonder  what  secret  he 
possessed  that  the  cares  and  rubs  and  disillusions  of  life 
should  so  have  passed  him  by. 

Yet  he  had  had  his  share  of  these,  and  more.  His  looks 
might  be  smooth,  but  wrinkles  enough  lay  behind  his  writing. 
From  those  boyish  eyes  that  reminded  you  of  a  handler  of 
boats  or  a  breaker  of  horses  there  still  peeped  out  from  time 
to.  time  the  qualities  of  his  earlier,  uneasy  books — the  gay 
and  mortal  and  inhuman  irony  of  The  Vicarage  of  Bray, 
the  vehement,  unchecked  passion  of  An  Ape  in  Hell.  If  to 
the  ordinary  bookstall-gazer  these  works  were  unknown — 
well,  that  was  part  of  the  task  that  Derwent  Rose  had  set 
himself.  It  is  part  of  the  task  any  writer  sets  himself  who 
refuses  all  standards  but  his  own,  and  works  on  the  assump- 
tion that  he  is  going  to  live  for  ever.  Only  his  last  pub- 
lished book,  The  Hands  of  Esau,  showed  a  fundamental  ur- 
banity, a  mellower  restraint,  and  perhaps  these  were  the  se- 
curer the  more  hardly  they  had  been  come  by.  I  for  one 
expected  that  his  next  book  would  rise  like  a  star  above  the 
vapours  where  we  others  let  off  our  little  six-shilling 
crackers  .  .  .  but  his  body  seemed  a  mere  flouting  of  the 
years. 

And  here  he  stood  under  the  corolla  of  an  incandescent 
lamp,  looking  at  himself  for  wrinkles ! 

Then  in  the  glass  he  caught  my  eye,  and  flushed  a  little  to 
have  been  caught  attitudinising.  He  gave  a  covert  glance 
round  to  see  whether  anybody  else  had  observed  him.  A 
few  yards  away,  in  the  doorway,  Madge  Aird  was  smilingly 
receiving  the  Club's  guests,  but  for  the  moment  Madge  was 
looking  the  other  way.  Then  he  spoke  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"Well?  Notice  anything?  How  do  I  look?  How  do  I 
strike  you?  No,  I  don't  want  a  compliment.  I'm  asking 
you  a  question.  How  do  I  look  ?  I've  a  special  reason  for 
wanting  to  know." 


4  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  laughed  a  little,  not  without  envy. 

"How  do  you  look !"  I  said.  "Another  ten  years  will  be 
time  enough  for  you  to  begin  to  worry  about  your  looks, 
Derry.  I  know  your  age,  of  course,  but  for  all  practical 
purposes  you  may  consider  yourself  thirty-five,  my  young 
friend." 

Sadly,  sadly  now  I  remember  the  eagerness  of  his  turn. 

"How  much?"  he  demanded. 

"I  said  thirty-five  or  thereabouts,  you  Darling  of  the  Gods. 
I'm  fifty,  but  you  make  me  look  sixty,  and  when  you're  a 
hundred  your  picture  will  be  in  the  papers  with  the  O.M. 
round  your  neck.  You'll  probably  have  picked  up  the  Nobel 
Prize  too,  and  a  few  other  trifles  on  the  way.  You've  got  a 
physique  to  match  your  brain,  lucky  fellow  that  you  are,  and 
nothing  but  accident  can  stop  you.  Don't  go  out  and  get  run 
over,  that's  all.  Well,  are  you  coming  in  ?" 

But  he  hung  back.  And  yet  it  was  largely  his  own  fault 
if  in  such  places  as  this  Club  he  felt  like  a  fish  out  of  water. 
It  might  even  have  been  called  a  perverse  and  not  very 
amiable  vanity  in  him,  and  I  had  hoped  he  had  got  over  this 
shyness,  arrogance,  or  both.  We  have  to  live  in  a  world, 
even  if  we  are  as  gifted  mentally  and  physically  as  was 
Derwent  Rose.  But  it  was  no  good  pressing  him.  I  re- 
membered him  of  old. 

"Then  if  you're  not  coming  in?"  I  ventured  to  hint;  and 
again  his  hand  went  to  the  soft  collar. 

"What  have  I  come  for,  you  mean?  I  want  you  to  find 
out  for  me  if  there's  a  Mrs  Bassett  here." 

"I  don't  think  I  know  her." 

"Mrs  Hugo  Bassett.     Ask  somebody,  will  you?" 

"What's  she  like  to  look  at?" 

"Can't  say.     Haven't  seen  her  for  years." 

"Wait  a  bit.     Is  it  somebody  called  Daphne  Bassett?" 

"Yes,  yes — Daphne,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Who  published  what's  called  a  'first  novel'  some  little 
time  ago?" 

Instantly  I  saw  that  I  had  said  something  he  didn't  like. 
The  blood  stirred  in  his  cheeks.  He  spoke  roughly,  im- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  5 

politely.  And  even  up  to  this  point  his  manner  had  been 
curt  enough. 

"Why  do  you  say  it  like  that?"  he  demanded.  "  'First' 
novel,  with  a  sneer  ?  She  wrote  a  novel,  if  that's  what  you 
mean." 

Yet,  though  he  began  by  glaring  at  me,  he  ended  by  look- 
ing uneasily  away.  You  too  may  have  wondered  why  pub- 
lishers so  eagerly  insist  that  some  novel  or  other  is  a  really- 
and-truly  'first'  one.  Your  bootmaker  doesn't  boast  that  the 
pair  of  boots  he  sells  you  is  his  'first'  pair,  and  you  wouldn't 
eat  your  cook's  'first'  dinner  if  you  could  help  it.  You  may 
take  it  from  me  that  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things  Derwent 
Rose  would  have  been  far  more  likely  to  applaud  the  novel 
that  ended  an  ignominious  career  than  the  one  that  began 
it.  Yet  here  he  was,  apparently  wishing  to  outface  me  about 
something  or  other,  yet  at  the  same  time  unable  to  look  me  in 
the  eye. 

"There's  got  to  be  a  first  before  there  can  be  a  second, 
hasn't  there?"  he  growled.  "Jessica  had  to  have  a  First 
Prayer,  didn't  she?  And  is  there  such  a  devil  of  a  lot  of 
difference  between  one  novel  and  another  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it — yours  or  mine  or  anybody  else's?" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  I  began  to  watch  him  attentively. 

"Go  on,  Derry,"  I  said. 

"There  isn't;  you  know  there  isn't;  and  I'm  getting  sick 
of  this  superior  attitude.  Why  must  everybody  do  the  Big 
Bow  Wow  all  the  time?  Can't  somebody  write  something 
just  for  amuse — I  mean  must  they  always  be  banging  the 
George  Coverham  Big  Drum?  As  long  as  it  doesn't  make 
any  pretence.  .  .  .  Have  you  read  it?"  he  demanded  sud- 
denly. 

"No." 

"Then  you  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

It  was  here  that  I  became  conscious  of  what  I  have  called 
the  Change.  Whatever  had  happened  to  put  him  out,  this 
was  not  the  Derry  Rose  I  had  lately  seen.  Surely  my  re- 
mark about  that  "first"  novel  had  been  innocent  enough ;  but 
he  had  replied  surlily,  unamiably,  unfamiliarly.  .  .  .  "Un- 


6  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

familiar?"  No,  that  is  not  the  word.  I  should  rather  say 
remotely  familiar,  recollected,  brought  forward  again  out 
of  some  time  that  was  past.  Just  as  in  his  resplendent 
physical  appearance  he  seemed  to  be  "too"  well,  if  such  a 
thing  can  be,  so  in  his  manner  he  seemed  to  be  too  .  .  . 
something;  I  gave  it  up.  I  only  knew  that  the  author  of 
The  Hands  of  Esau  would  not  have  spoken  thus. 

"Well,  will  you  find  out  for  me  if  she's  here?"  he  said  in 
a  softer  one. 

I  fancy  that  already  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  spoken  more 
quietly. 

"Why  not  come  in  and  see  for  yourself  ?" 

"Oh — you  know  how  I  hate  this  sort  of  thing." 

"Not  long  ago  you  spoke  of  joining  the  Lyonnesse." 

"I  know.  I  thought  I  would.  But  I've  decided  it's  out  of 
my  line." 

"Then  at  least  come  and  be  introduced  to  Mrs  Aird. 
She'll  know  whether  Mrs  Bassett's  here  or  not." 

The  blue-grey  eyes  gave  mine  a  quick  and  critical  glance. 

"Is  that  the  Mrs  Aird  who  writes  those  bright  books  about 
young  women  and  their  new  clothes  and  how  right  their  in- 
stincts are  if  you  only  give  them  plenty  of  pocket-money 
and  leave  'em  alone?" 

I  smiled.  Perhaps  it  was  a  little  like  Madge.  But  I 
noticed  his  sharp  distinction  between  the  novels  of  one 
woman  and  the  "first"  novel  of  another.  It  began  to  look 
as  if  behind  Mrs  Hugo  Bassett  the  novelist  lay  Daphne 
Bassett  the  woman. 

"Well,"  I  sighed,  "I'm  to  ask  for  Mrs  Hugo  Bassett. 
What's  the  title  of  her  book?" 

"The  Parthian  Arrow." 

"Mrs  Hugo  Bassett,  author  of  The  Parthian  Arrow. 
Very  well- 

I  approached  Madge,  but  before  I  could  ask  my  question 
she  had  drawn  me  inside  the  doorway. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  whispered  ardently  in  my  ear.  Her 
plump  ringed  hand  clutched  my  sleeve,  and  there  was  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  7 

liveliest  curiosity  in  the  dark  eyes  that  looked  up  at  me  from 
under  her  nodding  hat  with  black  pleureuse  feathers. 

"Is  there  a  Mrs  Bassett  here — Daphne  Bassett?" 

"No.     But " 

"Has  she  been,  and  is  she  likely  to  come?" 

"She  hasn't  been,  and  nobody'll  come  now.  But 
George " 

"I'll  see  you  presently ;  just  let  me  get  rid  of  my  message," 
I  said ;  and  I  returned  to  Rose. 

A  glance  at  my  face  was  enough  for  him.  He  may  have 
muttered  a  "Thank-you,"  but  I  didn't  hear  it;  he  had  spun 
on  his  heel  and  in  a  moment  was  half-way  to  the  cloakroom. 
I  hope  he  got  his  own  hat,  for  he  was  out  again  almost  in- 
stantly. I  had  a  glimpse  of  his  magnificent  back  as  he  hur- 
ried along  the  passage,  then  a  flying  heel  at  the  turn  of  the 
stairs  and  he  was  gone.  Turning,  I  saw  that  Madge  had 
watched  his  departure  with  me.  She  almost  ran  to  me. 

"Quickly,  George — who,  who  is  your  Beautiful  Bear,  and 
why  have  you  been  keeping  a  superb  creature  like  that  from 
me  ?"  she  demanded.  "I  knew  he  was  waiting  for  a  woman. 

Every  skirt  that  came  in "  at  the  swing  of  her  head  the 

feathers  tossed  like  an  inky  weeping-elm  in  a  gale.  "But," 
she  added,  "I  confess  I  never  saw  a  man  admire  himself 
quite  so  openly  before." 

My  friend  has  scored  off  me  often  enough  in  the  past. 
This  time  I  scored  off  her. 

"Derwent  Rose  always  was  good-looking,"  I  remarked. 

She  fell  a  step  back. 

"George! — Derwent  Rose!  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
that  was  Derwent  Rose?" 

"I  always  thought  you  knew  everybody  in  London." 

"That  was  Derwent  Rose!"  Then  she  added,  with  inex- 
pressible conviction  and  satisfaction,  "Ah!" 

I  am  always  a  little  uneasy  when  Madge  Aird  says  "Ah !" 
in  that  tone.  She  was  Madge  Ruthven  before  she  married 
Alec  Aird,  and  I  have  often  wondered  whether  in  the  past 
any  of  her  Scottish  forbears  had  any  traffic  with  France. 


8  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  am  not  now  thinking  of  the  air  with  which  she  always 
wore  her  clothes,  from  whatever  it  was  on  her  head  to  the 
always  irresistible  shoes  on  her  tiny  feet.  I  mean  the  work- 
ings of  her  mind.  There  is  none  of  our  northern  softness 
and  hesitation  and  mystery  about  these.  All  she  thinks  and 
says  has  a  logical  completeness  and  finish  that  somehow 
always  seems  just  a  little  too  good  to  be  true.  Few  things 
in  this  world  are  so  neatly  right  as  that.  But  wrong  though 
her  conclusions  may  be,  they  are  always  dazzlingly  effective, 
and  you  have  to  swallow  them  or  reject  them  whole. 

"Ah!"  she  murmured  again,  with  the  intensest  self-ap- 
proval; and  I  wondered  what  unreliable  imperfection  she 
was  meditating  now.  You  never  know  with  her.  She  sees 
so  many  people,  goes  to  so  many  places,  hears  so  much. 
Often  the  mere  mention  of  a  name  is  enough  to  touch  off 
that  instantaneous  fuse  of  her  memory  that  leads  straight 
into  the  heart  of  heaven  knows  what  family  history  or  hid- 
den scandal. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  'Ah'  ?"  I  asked  her. 

"The  gorgeous  creature!  I  never  dreamed — but  this 
makes  the  situation  perfectly  fascinating!" 

"What  situation  ?" 

"Why,  of  him  and  Daphne  Bassett.  But  poor  old  George, 
I  keep  forgetting  that  you're  the  noblest  Roman  of  them 
all  and  don't  listen  to  our  horrid  petty  little  scandal.  And 
evidently  you  haven't  read  The  Parthian  Arrow." 

"I  haven't.     Tell  me  what  it's  about." 

"But  you've  read  An  Ape  in  Hell?" 

"Of  course.     Tell  me  what  the  other's  about." 

But  at  that  moment  she  was  claimed.  Her  next  words 
came  over  her  shoulder  as,  with  a  wisk  of  her  ribboned 
ankles  and  another  gale  in  the  shake  of  feathers,  she  was  off. 

"Not  now — another  time.  I  shall  be  in  fairly  early  this 
evening  if  you're  staying  in  town.  It's  quite  an  interesting 
situation.  And  if  you'll  bring  your  Beautiful  Bear  to  see 
me  some  time,  I'll " 

I  understood  her  to  mean  that  in  that  case  she  would  bring 
Mrs  Hugo  Bassett  also. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  9 

II 

I  live  out  in  Surrey,  my  car  happened  to  be  in  dock,  and 
I  had  my  train  to  think  of.  As  I  walked  slowly  up  the  short 
street  to  the  Strand  I  puzzled  over  Madge's  words.  Evi- 
dently she  found  some  connection  between  that  "first"  novel, 
The  Parthian  Arrow,  and  Rose's  own  book,  An  Ape  in  Hell. 
Well,  my  ignorance  could  soon  be  remedied.  There  was  a 
bookshop  just  round  the  corner,  and  I  could  be  the  possessor 
of  a  copy  of  Mrs  Bassett's  book  in  five  minutes. 

But  suddenly,  on  the  point  of  hailing  a  taxi,  I  dropped 
the  point  of  my  stick  again.  Somewhere  at  the  back  of  my 
mind  was  the  feeling  that  there  was  some  invitation  or  ap- 
pointment I  had  overlooked.  I  knew  that  it  could  be  of  no 
great  importance,  and,  looking  back  on  these  events  since,  I 
have  thought  that  it  was  perhaps  a  mere  disinclination  to  go 
down  to  Surrey  that  night  that  gave  me  pause.  I  may  say 
that  I  am  unmarried,  and  have  got  my  housekeeper  fairly 
well  trained  to  my  ways. 

So,  standing  on  the  kerb,  I  brought  a  number  of  papers 
from  my  pocket  and  began  to  turn  them  over  in  search  of  the 
forgotten  appointment. 

I  found  it.  It  was  a  lecture  by  a  Fellow  of  a  Learned 
Society,  and  it  was  to  take  place  at  the  rather  unusual  hour 
of  six  o'clock.  No  doubt  this  was  in  order  that  the  learned 
speaker  might  get  his  paper  over  by  half-past  seven,  leaving 
his  learned  listeners  free  to  dine.  A  taxi  slowed  down  in 
front  of  me. 

"Society  of  Arts,"  I  said  to  the  driver. 

A  minute  later  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  Derwent  Rose  for 
the  second  time  that  afternoon. 

I  will  tell  you  in  a  moment  the  subject  of  that  lecture  I  had 
so  suddenly  decided  to  attend.  First,  a  word  as  to  my  atti- 
tude at  that  time  towards  new  discoveries  and  new  thought 
in  general.  I  was  enormously,  wistfully  interested  in  them. 
Instinctively,  at  that  time,  I  stretched  out  my  hands  to  them. 
I  had  lived  long  enough  in  the  world  to  realise  that  such 


io  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

events  as  Trafalgar  and  the  French  Revolution  were  mere 
events  of  yesterday,  and  the  possibilities  of  an  equally  near 
to-morrow  haunted  me.  I  shrank  from  the  thought  that 
while  the  dead  stones  of  the  Law  Courts  and  Australia 
House  would  still  be  there  after  I  had  gone,  I  should  not  at 
least  be  able  to  make  a  guess  at  the  stream  of  Life,  uncradled 
yet,  that  would  beat  and  press  and  flow  along  those  channels 
in  so  little  a  time,  the  new  blood  of  London's  old  unchanging 
veins.  One  begins  to  think  of  these  things  when  one  is  fifty. 

So,  at  a  minute  or  so  to  six,  my  taxi  set  me  down  in  the 
Adelphi,  when  I  might  have  been  a  happier  man  had  it  taken 
me  straight  to  Waterloo. 

And  now  for  what  that  lecture  was  all  about. 

My  meaning  will  perhaps  be  clearer  if  I  give  an  extract 
from  a  leading  article  in  The  Times  of  slightly  later  date.  On 
a  subject  of  this  kind  I  would  rather  use  an  expert's  words 
than  risk  the  inaccuracies  that  might  creep  into  my  own. 

"Human  beings,"  the  article  begins,  "differ  not  only  in 
the  knowledge  they  have  acquired,  but  in  their  dower  of 
intelligence  or  natural  ability.  It  has  long  been  accepted  that 
the  former  property  may  continue  to  increase  until  the 
natural  faculties  begin  to  abate,  but  that  the  latter  has  a 
maximum  for  each  individual,  attained  early  in  life.  .  .  . 
Intelligence,  as  opposed  to  knowledge,  is  fully  developed 
before  the  age  of  schooling  is  over.  Sixteen  years  has 
usually  been  taken  as  the  age  at  which,  even  in  those  best 
endowed,  the  limit  of  intelligence  has  been  reached.  Ob- 
viously the  standard  varies  in  different  individuals;  the  de- 
gree of  intelligence  passed  through  by  the  more  fortunate 
at  the  age  of  ten  may  be  the  final  attainment  of  others,  and 
all  intermediate  stages  occur.  .  .  .  Mr  H.  H.  Goddard,  an 
American  psychologist  of  international  repute,  classifies  the 
intelligence  of  his  countrymen  into  seven  grades,  but  ^eKeves 
that  in  exceptional  cases,  amounting  to  four  and  a  half  per 
cent,  of  the  population,  a  superlative  standard  is  reached  at 
the  age  of  nineteen.  On  the  other  hand,  seventy  per  cent,  of 
the  citizens  of  the  United  States  have  to  carry  on  their  lives 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  11 

with  the  intelligence  of  children  of  fourteen,  and  ten  per 
cent,  with  that  of  children  of  ten." 

It  was  to  hear  these  conclusions  of  Mr  Goddard's  ex- 
pounded by  a  fellow-savant  that  I  had  come  that  afternoon 
to  the  Society  of  Arts. 

To  tell  the  truth,  a  certain  whimsical  humour  in  the  idea 
had  attracted  me.  When  a  man's  books  sell  as  well  as  mine 
do,  and  he  is  as  flatteringly  thought  of  as  I  am,  it  is  rather 
tickling  to  be  told  that  he  is  really  an  infant  of  sixteen  or 
seventeen,  telling  fairy-stories  to'  a  gigantic  public  nursery 
the  average  age  of  which  is  perhaps  twelve.  Sir  George 
Coverham,  Knight,  merely  the  top  boy  of  a  kindergarten  of 
adults !  ...  It  pleased  me,  and  I  rather  hoped  the  lecturer 
would  approach  his  subject  from  that  humorous  angle. 

The  lights  were  being  turned  down  as  I  entered  the  lecture 
chamber.  Quietly,  not  to  make  a  disturbance,  I  tiptoed  to 
the  nearest  seat.  Then,  as  with  a  preliminary  hiss  or  two 
the  shaft  of  light  from  the  lantern  pierced  the  gloom, 
I  was  able  dimly  to  distinguish  that  the  subject  of  the  lec- 
ture had  not  attracted  more  than  a  couple  of  dozen  people. 
These  barely  filled  the  first  two  rows.  The  rest  of  the 
theatre  appeared  to  be  empty.  Of  the  speaker  himself 
nothing  could  be  seen  but  a  glimpse  of  white  beard  as  he 
moved  slightly  at  the  reading-lamp. 

He  read  from  a  typescript  in  a  flat,  monotonous  voice, 
with  once  in  a  while  a  halting  explanatory  remark  that 
trailed,  paused,  and  then  stopped  altogether.  I  watched  the 
acute  angles  his  wand  made  with  its  own  shadow  on  the 
diagrams  projected  by  the  lantern. 

Then  I  thought  I  heard  an  impatient  movement  and  mut- 
tering somewhere  behind  me.  The  speaker,  after  another 
long  and  painful  pause,  had  just  said,  "I  hope  I've  made  that 
clear,  gentlemen" ;  and  I  was  almost  certain  that  the  muffled 
growl  had  taken  the  shape  of  the  words  "You  don't  know  a 
damned  thing  about  it!" 

Then,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  sound  was  repeated,  this 
time  accompanied  by  an  unmistakable  groan. 


12  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Sssh!"  said  somebody  sharply  from  the  front  or  second 
row. 

The  lecture  dragged  on. 

But  about  the  next  and  final  outbreak  there  was  no  doubt 
whatever.  Neither  was  there  about  the  sharp  suffering  of 
whoever  was  the  cause  of  it.  Somebody  a  couple  of  rows 
behind  me  must  be  ill,  I  thought,  and  evidently  others 
thought  so  too,  for  the  lecturer  came  definitely  to  a  stop,  and 
my  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  saw  the  turning  of 
faces. 

"Is  anybody ?"  a  secretary  or  chairman  called  out,  and 

I  expected  the  light  to  go  up  at  any  moment. 

In  the  end,  however,  the  lecture  was  finished  without  fur- 
ther incident.  The  lights  were  switched  on,  the  dingy  classic 
painted  panels  on  the  walls  could  be  seen,  and  instantly  every 
face,  my  own  included,  was  turned  towards  the  back  of  a 
man  who  was  seen  to  be  hurriedly  making  his  way  to  the 
door. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  happened  at  the  Society  of  Arts 
after  that.  I  was  already  on  my  feet,  hurrying  after  that 
back.  It  was  the  same  back  I  had  seen,  in  the  same  haste, 
leaving  the  Lyonnesse  Club  less  than  two  hours  ago. 

He  had  got  to  the  entrance  hall  before  I  caught  him  up. 
He  accepted  with  rather  disturbing  docility  the  arm  I  slipped 
into  his.  All  the  fight  had  gone  out  of  him;  he  might  not 
have  been  the  same  man  who  had  so  recently  tried  to  outface 
me  about  first  novels.  I  looked  at  his  face  as  we  stood  by 
the  glass  doors  that  opened  on  to  John  Street.  It  showed 
both  fear  and  pain. 

"What's  the  matter,  Derry?  Can  I  be  of  any  help?"  I 
asked  him  anxiously. 

He  muttered,  "Yes — yes — about  time  I  called  somebody 
in — just  about  enough  of  it " 

"Do  you  want  a  doctor  ?     Shall  we  call  at  a  chemist's  ?" 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment;  then  I  vow  he  almost 
laughed. 

"A  doctor?     No  thanks.     One  dose  a  day's  quite  enough." 

"One  dose  of  what?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  13 

"Words,"  he  replied,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  lecture  chamber. 

We  passed  out  and  into  John  Street,  he  accommodating 
his  ordinary  London-to-Brighton  pace  to  mine.  He  once 
told  me  that  five  miles  an  hour  was  walking,  six  stepping  out 
a  bit,  and  anything  over  six  and  a  half  really  "going." 

"Which  way?"  I  asked  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

"I  suppose  you'd  better  come  round  to  my  place,"  he  re- 
plied; and  we  crossed  the  Strand  and  struck  north  past 
Trafalgar  Square. 

He  lived  (I  am  not  troubling  you  with  the  lobster  we 
shared  standing  up  at  a  counter,  during  which  repast  we  did 
not  exchange  one  single  word) — he  lived  in  Cambridge  Cir- 
cus, and  I  hope  I  have  not  given  you  the  impression  that 
Derwent  Rose  was  desperately  poor.  When  I  spoke  of  him 
as  having  none  too  much  either  of  money  or  success  I  meant 
as  by  comparison  with  myself.  Until,  quite  suddenly  and 
by  no  means  early  in  life,  my  own  reward  came  to  me,  I 
should  have  considered  his  quarters  luxurious — once  you  had 
got  there.  This  you  did  by  means  of  a  narrow  staircase 
from  the  various  landings  of  which  branched  off  the  offices 
of  variety-agents,  film-brokers,  furriers,  jewellers  and  I 
don't  know  what  else.  The  double  windows  he  had  had 
fitted  into  his  room  subdued  the  noises  of  the  Circus  outside, 
and  if  he  cared  to  draw  his  thick  brocade  curtains  as  well  he 
could  obtain  almost  dead  silence.  His  black  oak  furniture 
was  brightly  polished  by  some  basement  person  or  other,  his 
saddlebag  chairs  scrupulously  beaten  and  brushed.  The  two 
or  three  thousand  books  that  completely  filled  two  of  his 
walls  might  have  been  arranged  by  a  librarian,  so  methodi- 
cally and  conveniently  were  they  disposed,  with  lettered  and 
numbered  tickets  at  intervals  along  the  edges  of  the  shelves  ; 
and  I  knew  that  he  had  begun  a  catalogue  of  them.  All 
this  portion  of  his  room  spoke  of  a  man  settling  down  into 
meticulousness,  whom  disorderly  habits  and  departures  from 
routine  begin  to  irritate.  In  marked  contrast  with  it  was 
the  topsy-turvy  state  of  the  large  oval  table  with  the  beaded 
edge.  This  was  in  an  appalling  state  of  confusion.  News- 


14  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

papers  had  been  tossed  aside  on  to  it,  open  books  with  their 
faces  downwards  sprawled  over  it.  Empty  shells  of  brown 
paper  still  kept  something  of  the  shape  of  the  books  they  had 
contained,  and  ends  of  packer's  string  with  bits  of  sealing- 
wax  twined  among  them.  A  teacup  lay  on  its  side  in  a  wet 
saucer,  a  large  oval  milk-can  stood  next  to  it.  And  on  the 
top  of  all  were  the  snaky  rubber  cords  of  an  exerciser  and 
a  ten-pound,  horsehair-stuffed  medicine-ball. 

I  was  about  to  hang  up  my  hat  in  the  neatly-curtained  re- 
cess he  had  had  fitted  up  as  a  lobby  when  he  exclaimed  "Oh, 
chuck  it  anywhere,"  and  set  me  the  example  by  throwing  his 
own  hat  and  stick  on  to  the  clutter.  They  caught  the  medi- 
cine-ball, which  rolled  an  inch  or  two,  tottered,  and  then  fell 
with  a  soft  dead  thump  to  the  floor.  The  next  instant,  as  if 
now  that  his  own  door  was  closed  behind  him  there  was  no 
longer  any  need  to  keep  up  appearances,  he  himself  had 
fallen  with  a  similar  thud  to  the  sofa.  He,  this  piece  of 
physical  perfection  who  called  six  miles  an  hour  "stepping 
out  a  bit,"  lay  all  limp  and  relaxed,  with  lids  quivering  lightly 
over  his  closed  eyes.  He  spoke  with  his  eyes  closed. 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it?"  he  said,  breathing 
deeply. 

I  tried  to  keep  my  anxiety  out  of  my  tone. 

"What  did  I  think  of  the  lecture?"" 

"Yes,  the  lecture  if  you  like.  That'll  do  to  start  with. 
No,  I  don't  want  anything,  thanks.  Tell  me  what  you 
thought  of  the  lecture." 

I  began  to  say  something,  I  hardly  remember  what,  when, 
still  with  his  eyes  closed  and  twitching,  he  interrupted  me. 

"All  those  silly  charts — all  those  useless  figures  about  the 
American  Army — that's  all  waste  of  time.  Making  work  for 
work's  sake.  I  could  have  told  him  all  that  straight  away." 

I  remembered  those  groans  in  the  obscurity  of  the  lecture- 
room.  I  spoke  quietly. 

"Is  that  what  you  were  going  to  tell  him  when  you — inter- 
rupted a  little?" 

I  had  to  wait  for  his  reply.  When  it  did  come  I  hardly 
heard  it,  so  low  did  he  speak. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  15 

"I  know  what  you  mean;  but  I  can  only  tell  you  that  if 
you'd  been  vivisected  like  that  you'd  have  squirmed  a  bit 
too." 

I  couldn't  help  thinking  he  had  taken  that  lecture  in  a 
curiously  personal  sense,  and  I  said  so. 

"Vivisected  ?"  I  exclaimed.  "I  was  vivisected,  as  you  call 
it,  just  as  much  as  you  were — perhaps  more  in  some  ways. 
What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  It's  a  general  ques- 
tion. It's  human  functions  and  faculties  at  large  he  was 
vivisecting,  not  you  or  me.  So,"  I  concluded,  "we  were  all 
vivisected  alike,  and  when  everybody's  vivisected — you 
see "  I  made  a  little  gesture. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  there  was  an  expression  in 
them  that  suddenly  dried  me  up.  It  was  an  even  more  re- 
markable throw-back  to  a  remembered  and  earlier  manner 
than  that  I  had  witnessed  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  In  short, 
it  was  an  expression  of  unconcealed  contempt. 

"Q.E.D.,"  he  said.  "Finis,  Explicit,  and  the  Upper 
Fourth  next  Term.  You'd  have  made  a  good  schoolmaster. 
...  I  tell  you  that  when  I  say  T  and  'myself  " — he  posi- 
tively glared  with  irascibility  and  impatience — "I  mean  my- 
self singly  and  specially,  understand — the  egregious  and  in- 
destructible ego — and  not  merely  just  as  much  or  as  little 
as  anybody  else.  Get  that  well  into  your  head  or  I  won't 
talk  to  you." 

Had  he  not  been  so  visibly  suffering  I  shouldn't  have  stood 
the  tone  of  it  for  a  moment,  not  even  from  him.  And  let 
me  tell  you  at  once  the  surmise  that  had  already  flashed 
through  my  brain.  I  am  a  dependable  sort  of  person  myself, 
one  of  the  kind  that  nothing  startlingly  new  is  ever  likely  to 
happen  to;  but  I  was  not  so  sure  about  his  kind.  Brains 
like  his  often  fly  off  at  queer  tangents,  and  I  wondered 
whether  he  had  been  reading  too  much  of  this  current  cant 
about  "multiple  personality"  and  had  allowed  it  to  run  away 
with  him.  Every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  seems  to  rush  to 
that  for  an  explanation  of  everything  nowadays.  I  had 
already  noticed,  by  the  way,  that  one  of  the  books  that 
sprawled  cover  uppermost  on  his  table  was  a  book  on  the 


16  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

thyroid  gland.  But  suddenly  he  seemed  to  guess  at  my 
thoughts.  He  spoke  more  quietly.  Indeed  he  seemed  to  be 
fully  aware  of  these  outbreaks  of  his,  and  to  be  trying  to 
resist  them  more  and  more  strenuously  as  our  conversation 
proceeded. 

"Sorry,  old  fellow,"  he  said  contritely.  "I'm  very  sorry. 
I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  like  that.  But  I'm  not  what  they 
call  'disintegrating' ;  I'm  the  last  man  to  do  that.  When  I 
say  T  I  mean  the  T  I've  always  been.  That's  just  the 
devil  of  it." 

"Suppose  you  begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  suggested. 

"There  you  are!"  was  his  swift  reply.  He  was  sitting  up 
on  the  sofa  now,  and  was  facing  it,  whatever  "it"  was,  with 
a  calmer  courage.  "I  can't  begin  at  the  beginning.  All  I 
really  know  yet's  the  end,  and  of  course  that  hasn't  come. 
.  .  .  It's  a  damn-all  of  a  problem.  Get  yourself  a  drink  if 
you  want  one.  No,  I  won't  have  one;  I — I  daren't.  And 
you  might  draw  the  curtains.  When  I  hear  the  buses  and 
taxis  it  makes  me  want  to  go  out." 

I  drew  his  curtains  for  him,  but  did  not  take  the  drink. 
He  sat  on  the  sofa  leaning  a  little  forward,  his  great  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees  and  working  slightly  and  power- 
fully, as  if  he  cracked  walnuts  in  the  palms  of  them.  The 
grey-blue  eyes  avoided  mine.  I  have  seen  that  same  avoid- 
ing glance  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  something  perfectly 
true  to  tell,  but  so  utterly  improbable  that  he  was  self- 
convicted  of  lying  even  in  speaking  of  it. 

"About  what  you  were  saying  this  afternoon  in  that  Club 
place — my  age,"  he  began  in  a  constrained  voice.  "You — 
you  meant  it,  I  suppose?" 

"That  you'd  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  be  world-famous? 
Yes,  I  meant  it  in  a  way.  I  didn't  mean  you  to  take  me  too 
literally,  of  course." 

"And  you  thought" — he  hesitated  for  a  moment  and 
shivered  slightly — "it  was  something  to  be  congratulated 
about?" 

"Well — isn't  it  ?  Professionally  you've  staked  out  a  mag- 
nificent course  for  yourself  in  which  time  means  practically 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  17 

everything,  and  so,  if  you  live  long  enough,  as  you  look  like 
doing " 

Yet  I  cannot  tell  you  what  premonition  of  calamity  seemed 
already  to  flow  like  an  induced  current  from  him  to  me. 
Ordinarily  I  am  not  specially  sensitised  to  receive  impres- 
sions of  this  kind.  I  am  just  a  man  who  had  had  the  luck 
to  think  as  most  other  people  think  and  to  be  able  to  express 
their  thoughts  for  them.  The  greater  therefore  must  have 
been  that  current's  projecting  force.  Certainly  the  greater 
was  my  shock  when  it  did  come. 

"I  shan't  live  to  be  a  hundred,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

I  cannot  remember  what  I  said,  or  whether  I  said  any- 
thing at  all.  All  that  I  do  remember  is  his  own  next  words, 
the  swift  and  agonising  collapse  of  the  whole  man  as  he  said 
them,  and  the  feeling  of  my  own  nape  and  spine. 

"No,  not  a  hundred.  You're  counting  the  wrong  way. 
You  got  my  age  quite  right  this  afternoon.  I'm  thirty-five. 
And  I  shall  live  till  I'm  sixteen." 


Ill 

Among  the  things  that  have  contributed  to  the  wordly 
success  of  Sir  George  Coverham,  Knight,  has  been  that 
author's  rigid  exclusion  from  his  books  of  everything  that 
does  not  commend  itself  to  the  average  common  sense  of  his 
fellow-beings.  The  most  he  seeks  in  his  modest  writings — I 
speak  of  him  in  the  third  person  because,  as  Berry's  head 
dropped  over  his  knees,  it  seemed  impossible  that  this  Sir 
George  Coverham  and  I  could  be  one  and  the  same  person — 
the  most  he  seeks  is  a  line  somewhere  between  ordinary  ex- 
perience and  the  most,  rather  than  the  least,  attractive  pres- 
entation of  it.  In  a  word,  his  books  are  polite,  debonair, 
and  deliberately  planned  so  as  not  to  shock  anybody. 

Therefore  in  some  ways  he  may  be  quite  the  wrong  person 
to  be  writing  this  story  of  Derwent  Rose.  For  example :  he 
had  known  Rose  for  some  fifteen  years,  and,  not  to  mince 
matters,  there  had  been  many  highly  impolite  things  in 


i8  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Rose's  life  during  that  time.  More  than  once  it  had  seemed 
a  very  good  thing  indeed  that  he  had  had  to  work  hard  for 
his  money.  The  great  mental  concentration  necessary  for 
the  writing  of  some  of  his  books  must  have  kept  him  out  of 
a  good  deal  of  mischief. 

So  I  (I  am  allowing  myself  the  man  and  Sir  George 
Coverham  the  novelist  gradually  to  reunite,  as  they  gradually 
reunited  that  evening) — I,  his  friend,  had  already  done  what 
we  all  do  when  we  are  completely  bowled  over.  I  had  in- 
stinctively sought  refuge  from  his  lunatic  announcement  in 
trifles — any  trifle  that  lay  nearest  to  hand.  Suddenly  I 
found  myself  wondering  why  he  was  afraid  to  take  a  drink, 
and  why  I  had  had  to  draw  his  curtains  lest  the  sound  of 
the  buses  and  taxis  should  call  him  out  into  the  streets. 

But  presently  he  had  recovered  a  little.  He  was  even  able 
to  look  at  me  with  the  faint  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"Well,  that's  the  lot,"  he  said.  "I've  given  you  the  whole 
thing  in  a  nutshell.  You  heard  that  lecture  and  you  know 
me.  You  can  fill  in  the  rest  for  yourself." 

Suddenly  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  not  yet  half-past 
nine.  I  got  on  to  my  feet. 

"You'd  better  get  your  hat  and  come  down  to  Haslemere 
with  me,"  I  said.  "We  can  catch  the  ten-ten.  You're  all 
on  edge  about  something  and  you  want  a  change.  Leave 
word  here  that  you'll  be  back  in  a  week,  and  come  along." 

But  he  did  not  move,  except  to  shake  his  head. 

"I  expected  you'd  say  that.  It's  what  anybody  would 
say.  It  simply  means  that  you  haven't  taken  it  in  yet.  No, 
since  we've  started  we'll  go  on — unless  you'd  rather  not.  I 
warn  you  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  not  going  on." 

"Why  not  talk  about  it  down  at  Haslemere  ?" 

Once  more  there  was  the  hint  of  irascibility. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  or  don't  you  ?" 

Slowly  I  sat  down  again,  and  he  resumed  his  former  atti- 
tude of  cracking  nuts  with  his  palms  for  nutcrackers. 

"There's  not  an  atom  of  doubt  about  what  I'm  going  to 
tell  you,"  he  began.  "Not  an  atom.  Unless  I'm  mistaken 
you  saw  for  yourself  this  afternoon — though  of  course  you 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  19 

didn't  know  what  you  were  seeing.  You  simply  thought  I 
looked  younger,  didn't  you  ?" 

I  waited  in  silence. 

"And  I  fancy  my  manner  got  a  bit  on  your  nerves — does  a 
bit  now  for  that  matter?" 

This  also  I  let  pass  without  remark. 

"Well,  let's  start  from  that  point.  You  said  I  looked 
thirty-five.  Well,  it's  just  that  that's  getting  on  your 
nerves — the  less  amiable  side  of  my  character  when  I  was 
thirty-five,  and — and — well,  when  you  go  you  might  take  that 
bottle  of  whisky  with  you  and  make  me  sign  the  pledge  or 
something.  I'm  trying — I'm  honestly  trying — to  hang  on, 
you  see." 

I  sighed.     "I  wish  you  could  make  it  a  bit  plainer,"  I  said. 

"I'm  making  it  as  plain  as  I  can.  Is  this  plain — that  some- 
thing's happened  to  me,  I  don't  know  what,  and  I'm  getting 
younger  instead  of  older?" 

"Derry "  I  began,  half  rising;  but  he  held  up  one 

heroically-moulded  hand. 

"Let  me  finish.  And  if  I  happen  to  go  to  sleep  suddenly 
you  just  walk  straight  out,  do  you  hear?  Walk  right  out 
and  shut  the  door.  You're  to  promise  that.  There  are 
some  things  I  won't  ask  even  a  pal  to  go  through.  ...  So 
there  it  is.  Instead  of  getting  older  like  everybody  else  I'm 
simply  getting  younger.  I'm  perfectly  sober — I  haven't  had 
a  drink  for  five  days — and  I  tell  you  I  shall  go  on  till  I'm 
thirty,  and  then  twenty-five,  and  then  twenty,  and  then,  at 
sixteen  or  thereabouts — that  fellow  wasn't  very  sound  on 
his  ages  to-night — I  shall  die.  Now  have  you  got  it  ?" 

Even  about  human  nature  there  are  some  things  that  you 
have  to  accept  as  it  were  mathematically.  I  am  no  mathe- 
matician, but  I  do  know  (for  example)  that  the  common 
phrase  "mathematically  certain"  is  a  misnomer.  The  whole 
essence  of  mathematics  lies,  not  in  its  certainties,  but  in  its 
assumptions,  its  power  to  embrace  any  concept  whatever  and 
pin  it  down  in  the  form  of  a  symbol.  Once  you  have 
adopted  the  symbol  you  don't  trouble  about  what  lies  behind 
it.  You  merely  proceed  to  reason  on  it. 


20  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

It  can  only  have  been  in  some  such  way  that  I  accepted 
Derwent  Rose's  mad  statement  and  was  willing  to  see  what 
superstructure  he  was  prepared  to  raise  upon  it.  I  was  even 
able  to  speak  in  an  almost  calm  and  ordinary  voice. 

"Tell  me  how  you  know  all  this,"  I  said. 

He  was  logical  and  prompt. 

"By  my  knowledge  of  myself,  and  also  by  my  memory. 
I  know  what  I  was  at  thirty-five,  and  I  know  what  I  did; 
well,  I  simply  know  that  I'm  that  man  again,  and  that  I  shall 
go  on  and  re-do  more  or  less  what  he's  already  done.  At 
some  point  in  my  life  I  must  have  got  turned  round,  and 
now  I'm  living  it  backwards  again.  And  put  multiple  per- 
sonality quite  out  of  your  head.  That's  the  whole  point. 
I'm  not  anybody  else,  and  I  shan't  be  anybody  else.  At  this 
moment  I'm  Derwent  Rose,  as  he  always  was  and  always  will 
be,  but  simply  back  at  the  mental  and  physical  stage  when 
he  wrote  An  Ape  in  Hell." 

To-day,  looking  back,  it  gives  me  an  indescribable  ache 
at  my  heart  to  remember  the  sudden  and  immense  sense  of 
relief  his  words  gave  me.  I  breathed  again,  as  if  a  window 
had  been  opened  and  a  draught  of  cool  fresh  air  let  in. 

For  if  he  only  meant  memory,  then  the  thing  wasn't  so 
bad.  The  maniacal  idea  that  had  sent  that  cold  shiver  up 
my  spine  was  capable  of  an  ordinary  explanation  after  all. 
For  what  else  is  memory  but  the  illusion  that  one  is  living 
backwards  again  in  this  sense?  How  many  ancient  loves, 
hates,  angers,  can  we  not  re-experience  in  any  idle  hour  we 
choose  to  give  over  to  reverie?  Beyond  a  doubt  Rose  had 
in  some  way  been  abusing  this  mysterious  faculty,  and  Sur- 
rey and  the  pine-woods  was  the  place  for  him. 

"I  see,"  I  said  at  last.  "I  confess  you  frightened  me  for 
a  moment.  Anyway  that's  all  right.  You  only  have  what 
we  all  have  more  or  less.  You  merely  bring  greater  powers 
than  the  rest  of  us  to  bear  on  an  ordinary  phenomenon.  I 
don't  want  to  talk  about  your  work,  but  it  always  did  seem 
to  me  that  you  went  to  rather  appalling  heights  and  fear- 
some depths  for  the  stuff  of  it.  Personally  I  don't  think 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  21 

either  heaven  or  hell  is  the  safest  place  to  go  to  for  'copy.' 
Too  terrifying  altogether." 

He  seemed  to  consider  this  deeply.  He  was  almost  quiet 
again  now.  Again  he  cracked  invisible  nuts,  and  his  heels 
and  toes  rose  and  fell  gently  and  alternately  on  the  carpet. 

"That's  rather  a  new  idea  you've  given  me,  George,"  he 
said  at  last.  "I  admit  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  It  might 
explain  the  beginning  anyway — the  turn-round.  I  suppose 
you  mean  I've  been  too  close  to  the  flames  or  the  balm,  and 
have  got  singed  or  the  other  thing,  whatever  you  call  it.  I 
see.  Yes.  .  .  .  It's  probably  nothing  to  do  with  the  thyroid 
after  all.  I've  been  reading  the  wrong  books.  I  never 
thought  of  the  writings  of  the  Saints.  Or  the  Devils.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  some  of  the  Saints  induced  the  stigmata  on 
themselves  by  a  sort  of  spiritual  process,  didn't  they?" 

I  frowned  and  moved  uneasily  in  my  chair.  I  wasn't 
anxious  to  hear  Derwent  Rose  either  on  ecstasy  or  blas- 
phemy. But  he  went  on. 

"So  that's  useful  as  far  as  it  goes.  But — you'd  hardly 
call  this  spiritual,  would  you?" 

I  think  I  mentioned  that  he  wore  a  soft  white  collar,  pinned 
and  tied  with  exquisite  neatness.  A  moment  later  he  wore 
it  no  longer.  Without  troubling  about  pin,  studs  or  buttons, 
with  a  swift  movement  he  had  ripped  the  collar,  tie  and  half 
the  shirt-band  from  his  neck,  and  showed,  of  an  angry  and 
recent  purply-red,  vivid  on  his  magnificent  throat,  two 
curved  marks  like  these  brackets — (  ). 

Now  I  am  not  more  squeamish  than  most  men.  I  am  far 
from  having  lived  the  whole  of  my  life  in  cotton-wool.  But 
it  needed  no  course  in  medical  jurisprudence  to  tell  me  what 
those  marks  were — the  marks  of  teeth,  and  of  a  woman's 
teeth.  I  was  deeply  wounded.  Rose's  amusements  in  this 
sort  were  no  affair  of  mine,  and  I  strongly  resented  this 
humiliation  both  of  himself  and  of  me. 

But  his  hand  gripped  my  arm  like  a  vice.  Suddenly.  I  saw 
a  quite  new  pair  in  his  grey-blue  eyes.  It  was  a  swift  fear 
lest,  instead  of  helping  him,  I  should  turn  against  him. 


22  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Good  God,  man !"  he  cried  in  a  high  voice.  "Don't  think 
that!  Don't  think  I'm  such  a  cur  as  to — oh,  my  God,  that 
isn't  the  point !  I'm  not  bragging  about  my  conquests !  .  .  . 
The  point  is  that  these  marks  are  ten  years  old  and  they 
weren't  there  last  night!" 

I  tried  to  free  myself  from  his  grip,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me 
go.  He  ran  agitatedly  on,  repeating  himself  over  and  over 
again. 

"There  isn't  much  imagination  about  that,  is  there  ?  That 
isn't  fancy,  is  it?  That  doesn't  happen  to  any  man  any 
day,  does  it?  A  man  would  be  likely  to  remember  that, 
wouldn't  he?  He  wouldn't  forget  it,  if  it  was  only  for  the 
shame  of  it!  Is  that  just  ordinary  memory?  And  how 
would  you  feel  when  everything  was  healed  over  and  for- 
gotten, and  you'd  settled  decently  down,  and  hoped  every- 
thing was  forgiven  you — and  then  you  were  to  be  dragged 
back  over  the  ploughshares  like  that !  I  tell  you  you've  got 
to  see  it  all  crowding  back  on  you  again,  before  you  realise 
that  forgetting's  the  greatest  happiness  in  life!  ...  I  tell 
you  on  my  word  of  honour  that  that  happened  ten  years  ago, 
when  I  was  thirty-five  before,  and  that  it  wasn't  there  last 
night!  Now  tell  me  I'm  drunk  or  dreaming!" 

Stupefied  I  stared  at  him.  The  issue  was  plain.  Either 
he  was  telling  the  truth,  or  he  was  not.  Either  those  marks 
were  as  recent  as  they  looked  or  as  old  as  he  said.  He  was 
to  be  believed  or  disbelieved.  There  was  no  middle  way. 

And  my  heart  sank  like  a  stone  in  my  breast  as  suddenly 
I  found  myself  believing  him.  He  saw  that  I  did,  and  fum: 
blingly  sought  to  fasten  the  collar  again.  But  he  had  torn 
both  buttonhole  and  band,  and  could  only  cover  up  those 
shameful  marks  by  turning  up  the  collar  of  his  dark  blue 
jacket.  He  sat  with  his  collar  turned  up  for  the  rest  of  our 
talk. 

Presently  I  felt  a  little  more  master  of  myself.  I  had 
moved  over  to  the  sofa  and  was  sitting  by  his  side.  He,  this 
youthful  Hercules  of  forty-five,  who  wrote  books  and  made 
you  think  of  boats  and  horses,  was  weeping  softly.  He  was 
weeping  for  misery  and  hate  of  what,  apparently,  he  must 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  23 

go  through  again.  Stupidly  my  eyes  rested  on  the  care- 
fully lettered  and  numbered  shelves  of  books,  and  then  on 
the  slovenly  litter  of  the  table.  The  electric  light  gave  the 
merest  flicker — they  were  doing  something  at  the  power- 
station — and  then  burned  quietly  on.  It  shone  on  the  black 
oak  furniture  and  the  saddlebag  chairs,  on  our  two  hats 
on  the  table,  on  the  neatly  curtained  recess  where  the  hats 
should  have  been.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  in  its 
contrast  of  orderliness  and  disorder  the  very  room  showed 
two  sharp  and  distinct  phases.  Almost  with  voices  the  inani- 
mate things  seemed  to  cry  it  aloud.  The  man  who  had  cata- 
logued those  bays  of  books  had  been  the  author  of  The 
Hands  of  Esau.  He  who  now  threw  everything  down  on  to 
that  disgraceful  table  was  he  who  had  written  An  Ape  in 
Hell. 

He  still  wept  quietly.     I  put  my  hand  on  his  knee. 

"All  right,  Derry,"  I  said.  "Try  to  pull  yourself  together. 
You  say  you  can't  begin  at  the  beginning.  Very  well,  begin 
anywhere  you  like.  I  dare  say  something  can  be  done.  It 
may  turn  out  to  be — oh,  shellshock  or  something." 

But  already  my  heart  told  me  that  it  would  turn  out  to  be 
nothing  of  the  kind. 

IV 

I  am  not  going  to  direct  your  attention  specially  to  the 
more  fantastic  part  of  what  Derwent  Rose  told  me  in  his 
rooms  that  night.  I  have  found  no  issue  in  that  direction. 
Neither  am  I  going  into  the  metaphysics  of  the  thing ;  I  know 
no  more  about  that  than  he  ever  knew  himself.  But  if  you 
care  to  read,  in  reverse,  the  progress  of  a  man  out  of  the  sad 
shadows  of  middle-age  back  into  the  light  and  beauty  and 
belief  that  once  were  his — always  the  same  man,  undeviating 
from  the  lines  laid  down  by  his  own  nature,  re-approaching 
each  phase  as  he  had  formerly  approached  it,  but  in  times 
and  circumstances  so  complex  and  altered  that  nothing  in 
the  pilgrimage  was  constant  but  himself — if,  I  say,  you  care 
to  read  that  extraordinary  intertwining  of  what  he  had  done 


24  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

and  what  he  re-did,  and  are  content  with  this,  and  will  not 
pull  me  up  every  time  the  mystery  of  the  deeper  cause  con- 
founds us  both,  then  I  am  content  too  and  we  can  go  ahead. 

It  had  been  going  on  (he  told  me)  for  six  months  past; 
but  at  the  outset  I  ought  to  warn  you  that  he  had  two  scales 
of  time.  Here  I  wish  that  we  were  all  mathematicians,  and 
that  I  could  write  and  you  could  read  his  wondrous  history 
in  symbolised  concepts.  However,  we  will  do  the  best  we 
can  with  words. 

Broadly  speaking,  he  went  backwards,  not  at  a  uniform 
rate,  but  in  a  series  of  irregular  and  unequal  slips.  That 
is  to  say,  that  though  in  six  months  or  so  of  actual  time  he 
had  retrograded  the  ten  years  between  forty-five  and  thirty- 
five,  it  did  not  follow  that  he  had  gone  back  five  years  in 
three  months  or  two  and  a  half  in  any  given  six  weeks.  I 
went  carefully  into  this  point  with  him.  I  asked  him,  if  the 
ratio  was  not  a  steady  twenty  to  one  (or  a  hundred  and 
twenty  months  of  experienced  time  as  against  six  by  the 
clock)  what  he  estimated  it  at  for  shorter  periods  of  either. 
But  to  this  he  could  give  no  clear  answer.  Being  unable  to 
fix  the  precise  turning-point,  and  hardly  knowing  when  the 
indications  in  himself  had  begun  (since  at  first  he  had  put 
the  whole  thing  aside  as  an  absurdity),  he  had  no  datum.  He 
had  only  become  fully  awake  to  the  phenomenon  when  it  had 
not  been  possible  to  disregard  it  any  longer. 

"Well,  as  we've  got  to  assume  something  let's  assume 
that,"  I  said.  "When  was  it  that  you  first  had  no  doubt 
at  all?" 

This  he  did  more  or  less  remember.  I  give  his  account  in 
his  own  words. 

"It  was  about  two  months  ago,"  he  said.  "I'd  no  book 
on  hand.  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  I'd  never  felt  so  stale 
and  empty  and  sick  of  everything  I'd  ever  done.  In  fact  I'd 
got  to  the  point  you  noticed  this  afternoon." 

"What  point  was  that?  Don't  let's  take  anything  for 
granted." 

"When  you  rubbed  me  up  about  that  first  novel.  I'd  got 
to  the  point  of  hardly  seeing  any  difference  worth  mention- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  25 

ing  between  the  worst  stuff  and  the  best,  Shakespeare  in- 
cluded. Do  you  mind  if  I  go  into  that  rather  in  detail  ?" 

"Do." 

"Here,  I  thought,  is  this  creature  man,  this  fellow  called 
George  Coverham  or  Derwent  Rose,  brought  naked  into  a 
world  that  marvellously  doesn't  care  a  rap  about  him — but 
that  he's  got  to  contrive  to  make  some  sort  of  an  interpreta- 
tion of,  because  it's  where  he's  got  to  live.  He  hasn't  got 
too  long  to  live  there  either — a  strictly  limited  time — so  that 
there's  just  him  and  this  wonderful  uncaring  universe  for  it. 
This  and  nothing  else  is  what  happens  every  time  a  human 
being's  brought  into  the  world.  All  this  procreation  and 
child-bearing  are  just  for  that — so  that  somebody  can  make 
head  or  tail  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Well,  what  do  they  do  to 
him  ?  By  and  by  they  send  him  to  school.  That's  the  first 
step  towards  taking  him  away  from  this  universe  he's  trying 
to  make  something  of  and  telling  him  instead  what  some 
other  naked  being  before  him  thought  about  it  all.  That's  all 
right  as  far  as  it  goes.  Just  once  in  a  while,  I  suppose,  two 
heads  may  be  better  than  one.  But" — he  paused  for  em- 
phasis— "when  a  third  begins  to  repeat  what  a  second  has 
already  repeated,  and  a  fourth  a  third,  and  so  on,  by  and 
by  the  universe  begins  to  drop  right  away  into  the  back- 
ground. The  process  goes  on — it  has  gone  on — till  not  one 
in  ten  million  dreams  there's  a  universe  at  all.  You  know 
what  I  mean — all  talk  about  talk  about  talk  about  it.  So,  if 
you've  any  sense  of  proportion  at  all,  where  does  the  differ- 
ence between  one  book  and  another  come  in  ?" 

"Well — that's  the  state  of  mind  you  were  in,"  I  observed. 
Goodness  knows  I  wasn't  trying  to  shut  him  up.  If  it  did 
him  good  to  talk  I  would  gladly  have  listened  to  him  all  night. 
As  for  sharing  these  Olympian  views  of  his,  however,  I 
have  never  had  either  the  strength  or  the  audacity.  It  is 
because  of  my  own  indefatigability  in  talking  about  talk 
about  talk  that  they  made  me  a  Knight. 

"I  was  only  trying  to  explain  how  I  felt,"  he  answered 
apologetically.  "Let's  start  again.  It  was  two  months  ago 
within  a  few  days,  and  I  know  it  was  a  Monday  morning, 


26  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

because  Mrs  Hyems  doesn't  come  up  on  Sundays,  and  she 
brought  a  parcel  that  had  been  overlooked  from  Saturday 
night.  It  was  half-past  eight,  and  I  was  in  there  shaving" — 
he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  his  bedroom.  "She  wanted  to 
call  my  attention  to  the  parcel  because  it  was  registered." 

"Is  this  just  to  fix  the  date,  or  has  the  parcel  anything  to 
do  with  it?" 

"Both.  I'm  coming  to  the  parcel  in  a  minute.  Well,  as 
I  was  saying,  I  was  just  about  fed  up  with  things  in  general. 
Books  in  particular.  Nice  state  of  mind  for  an  author  with 
his  living  to  earn  to  begin  the  week  in !  I  remember  stop- 
ping shaving  to  have  a  good  hard  look  at  myself.  I  remem- 
ber saying  to  myself  in  the  glass,  'You're  young,  you're  a 
perfect  miracle  of  youth;  you've  got  quite  a  good  brain  as 
brains  go ;  and  yet  instead  of  getting  out  of  doors  and  living 
every  minute  of  one  of  God's  good  days  you'll  sit  down  there, 
and  make  scratches  on  bits  of  paper  that  have  got  to  be  just 
like  the  scratches  everybody  else  makes  or  you  won't  sell 
'em ;  isn't  there  something  wrong  somewhere  ?'  I  asked  my- 
self that  in  the  glass.  And  mind  you,  I  was  feeling  extraor- 
dinarily fit  physically.  That's  important.  I'd  felt  like  that 
for  days  past.  Who  wants  to  work  when  he  feels  like  that  ?" 

I  sighed  a  little.  Even  I,  with  my  modicum  of  health, 
have  occasionally  felt  too  fit  to  work. 

"So  I  finished  dressing  and  came  in  here  to  breakfast, 
and  I  was  half-way  through  breakfast  when  that  book  caught 
my  eye." 

"What  book?" 

"The  parcel  I  spoke  of.  It  was  a  book.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  it  was  Mrs  Bassett's  book,  The  Parthian  Arrow." 

I  glanced  at  him.     "Registered  ?" 

"Yes.  You  mean  one  doesn't  usually  register  a  common 
or  garden  novel  unless  you  want  there  to  be  no  mistake 
about  the  person  getting  it  ?" 

"Go  on." 

"So  I  opened  it  there  and  then  and  began  to  read  it.  I 
read  it  at  a  single  sitting.  Then  I  tore  it  in  two.  Wait  a 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  27 

bit,  I'll  show  you.     Pass  me  a  book,  any  one.     They're  all 
the  same." 

I  passed  him  a  book  from  the  untidy  table,  an  ordinary 
two-inch-thick  octavo  volume  in  a  cloth  binding.  Now  read 
carefully.  He  didn't  even  change  his  position  on  the  sofa. 
Using  his  knees  only  as  a  support,  with  his  hands  he  tore 
the  back  into  halves.  Let  me  say  it  again.  I  don't  mean 
he  tore  it  lengthwise  along  the  stitching.  He  didn't  sepa- 
rate the  pages  into  dozens  or  scores,  nor  bend  or  break  it. 
He  just  tore  it  across  as  I  might  have  torn  a  postcard.  I 
can  still  see  the  creeping  and  fanning  of  the  leaves  under  the 
dreadful  pressure  of  his  hands,  the  soft  whity-grey  fur  of 
paper  as  the  gap  widened  relentlessly  before  my  eyes,  hear 
the  slightly  harsher  sound  of  the  rending  cloth  and  the  little 
"zip"  at  the  end. 

Then  he  tossed  the  two  halves  on  to  the  table  again. 

"I  used  to  do  a  bit  of  that  sort  of  thing  years  ago,"  he  re- 
marked, without  even  a  quickening  of  his  breath.  "Half- 
crowns  and  packs  of  cards,  you  know.  But  I'd  had  to  drop 
it.  Your  muscles  have  changed  by  the  time  you're  forty- 
five.  I'd  tried  to  tear  a  pack  of  cards  not  long  before,  but 
I  could  only  make  a  mess  of  them  and  had  to  give  it  up." 

I  found  not  a  word  to  say.  As  much  as  the  feat  itself  the 
terrifying  ease  with  which  he  had  done  it  made  me  gape. 

"Yes,  my  strength  came  on  me  like  Samson's  that  morn- 
ing," he  continued.  "I  was  scared  of  it  myself.  I  didn't 
know  what  was  happening,  you  see.  I'm  simply  trying  to 
tell  you  the  first  time  I  knew  there  was  no  mistake  about  it." 

I  found  my  voice. 

"But  why  did  you  tear  the  book?  I — I  hope  you  weren't 
looking  for  the  author  this  afternoon  to  tear  her  too!"  I 
laughed  nervously. 

He  turned  earnest  eyes  on  me. 

"I  swear  I  never  meant  her,  George — in  that  accursed  Ape 
book  of  mine,  I  mean.  Of  course  she  must  have  thought  I 
did,  and — and — well,  to  be  perfectly  honest,  I'm  not  quite 
sure  she  didn't  start  me  on  the  idea.  You've  got  to  start 


28  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

somewhere.  But  I  went  over  it  a  dozen  times  afterwards. 
Am  I  the  man  to  take  it  out  of  a  woman  in  print?"  he  ap- 
pealed piteously. 

He  was  not,  and  I  tried  to  reassure  him;  but  he  broke  in 
anew. 

"Why,  I'd  forgotten  all  about  her  before  I'd  written  a 
couple  of  chapters  !  You're  a  novelist ;  you  understand.  If 
only  she'd  .  .  .  But  I  suppose  I  left  something  in — some 
damnable  wounding  oversight — but  I  can't  find  it  even  yet" — 
he  glared  round  the  room  as  if  in  search  of  a  copy  of  his 
own  book  to  submit  to  cross-examination  all  over  again. 

And  then  abruptly  he  seemed  to  put  the  book  aside.  His 
manner  changed.  He  lifted  himself  from  the  cushions  and 
spoke  in  a  strained  voice. 

"Look  here,  George,"  he  said  hurriedly,  jumping  from 
point  to  point,  "let's  be  getting  on.  I  may  be  having  to  turn 
you  out  soon ;  this  may  be  no  place  for  you.  Where  had  we 
got  to?  W'here  I  tore  that  book.  You  were  asking  me 
when  I  first  felt  sure  of  all  this.  Well,  it  wasn't  just  the 
book,  it  was  what  happened  inside  me  as  well.  Something 
gave  way.  I  was  afraid.  I'm  afraid  now.  You've  known 
me  a  long  time,  George;  known  scandalous  things  about 
me,  I'm  afraid.  But  a  man  can  live  a  pretty  queer  sort  of 
life  and  yet  manage  to  keep  something  safe  from  harm  all 
the  time.  It's  that  that  I'm  hanging  on  to  now.  You  see, 
I've  never  had  any  habits  or  customs.  I've  never  been  the 
millionth  man — the  fellow  who  repeats  what  they've  all  said 
before  him.  Every  morning  of  my  life  I've  tried  to  look 
at  the  universe  as  if  I'd  never  seen  it  before — as  if  it  had 
never  been  seen  by  anybody  before.  Dashed  risky  way  of 
living.  .  .  .  But  I  managed  to  keep  something  clean  inside 
me  ...  thank  God  .  .  .  need  it  ...  badly  ...  no  time 
to  go  into  all  that  now.  .  .  ." 

He  muttered  unintelligibly.  He  was  not  actually  looking 
at  his  watch,  and  yet  he  gave  the  impression  of  having  his 
eye  on  the  passage  of  time.  Suddenly  he  went  on  with  a 
new  spurt. 

"Don't  interrupt,  please.     I   may  have  made  a  miscal- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  29 

culation.  You  see,  when  I  drop  off  to  sleep  .  .  .  About 
that  book.  I  started  it  at  breakfast,  sent  Mrs  Hyems  away, 
and  never  moved  from  my  chair  till  I'd  finished  it  in  the 
afternoon.  Then,  when  I  ripped  it  in  two,  I  seemed  to  rip 
something  in  myself  with  it.  I  can't  describe  it  any  other 
way.  Something  in  me  seemed  to  open  and  take  me  right 
back.  Before  breakfast  that  morning  I  was  what  they  call 
'settling  down  in  life.'  I'd  written  Esau  since  the  Ape,  and 
had  lots  of  things  planned.  I'd  even  got  a  bit  old-maidish 
about  all  this" — he  indicated  his  tidy  walls.  "Then — piff! 
All  that  stage  of  my  development  seemed  to  go  like  smoke. 
No,  no  pain  ;  no  physical  feeling  of  any  kind  except  that  sud- 
den rush  of  bodily  strength.  I  just  tore  myself  in  two  as 
I'd  torn  the  book,  and  I  ran  to  my  glass — the  glass  I'd  shaved 
in  only  a  few  hours  ago." 

"And  you  saw ?"  the  words  broke  breathlessly  from 

me. 

Slowly  he  shook  his  head.  "Nothing — that  time.  7 
hadn't  been  to  sleep,  you  see.  A  sleep's  got  to  come  in 
between.  That's  why  you  mustn't  be  here  if  I  go  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  No,  it  was  the  next  morning  I  saw  it." 

Faintly  I  asked  him  what  it  was  he  had  seen  the  next 
morning. 

But  before  he  could  reply  there  had  come  a  sudden  wicked 
glitter  into  his  grey-blue  eyes.  His  hand  had  once  more 
gone  to  his  upturned  coat  collar.  And  he  chuckled — chuckled. 

"Not  this,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  he  said  with  a  jerk 
of  his  head.  "That  was  my  last  adventure;  the  one  I'm 
telling  you  about  now  was  two  before  that."  Then  his 
chuckle  dying  away  again,  "You  notice  your  face  when 
you  shave,  don't  you  ? — the  texture  of  your  skin  and  so  on  ? 
Well,  that  was  what  I  saw :  just  a  few  years  younger,  a  few 
years  softer,  a  few  years  smoother.  The  corners  of  your 
eyebrows  here ;  you  know  how  the  brow  gets  thin  at  the 
sides  and  those  sprouts  of  long  hair  begin  to  come?  Well, 
they'd  gone.  And  I  was  scared  at  my  strength  coming 
back  like  that.  ...  I  say,  get  me  a  drink,  will  you  ?  No,  no, 
blast  it — not  that  stuff — plain  water." 


30  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  got  him  the  water.  He  gulped  it  down.  His  fingertips 
were  still  feeling  his  eyebrows.  Then  with  another  spurt : 

"What's  the  time  now  ?  Never  mind— but  I  keep  a  diary 
now,  you  see.  Have  to.  Memory  isn't  to  be  trusted  in  a 
matter  of  this  kind.  And  speaking  of  memory,  it'll  be  hell's 
delight  if  that  goes.  You  see,  this  isn't  1920  for  me;  it's 
1910,  and  I  shan't  have  written  The  Hands  of  Esau  for 
another  three  years  yet.  Or  you  can  call  it  both  1920  and 
1910  if  you  like.  Bit  mixing,  isn't  it?  It's  demoniac.  I 

call  it "  he  called  it  something  rather  too  violent  for  me 

to  set  down,  and  I  have  omitted  one  or  two  other  strong  ex- 
pressions that  had  begun  to  creep  into  his  speech.  "And 
just  one  other  thing  before  I  shove  you  out,"  he  positively 
raced  on.  "I  said  I  should  die  at  sixteen.  If  it  comes  to  the 
worst  I  hope  to  God  I  shall;  none  of  your  scarlet  second 
childhoods  for  me !  But  how  the  Erebus  and  Terror  do  I 
know  when  sixteen  will  come?  ...  I  say,  where  are  you 

sleeping  to-night?  Perhaps  you'd  better Have  some 

whisky.  If  only  we  had  that  damned  datum  point!  Do 

have  some  whisky.  Have  the lot.  Are  those  curtains 

drawn?  Take  my  key  and  lock  me  in  and  give  it  to  Mrs 
Hyems  downstairs.  Where's  that  diary  of  mine?" 

Then  all  in  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet.  Without  cere- 
mony he  had  thrust  my  hat  into  my  hands.  Comparatively 
gently,  seeing  what  his  strength  was,  he  was  hustling  me 
towards  the  door. 

"Sorry,  old  man" — the  words  came  thickly — "thanks 
awfully — I  expect  I  shall  be  all  right — don't  bother  about 
me.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  have  to  move  sooner  or  later — looks  so 
dashed  queer  one  man  coming  in  and  another  going  out — too 
comic  if  they  arrested  me  on  a  charge  of  making  away  with 
myself.  .  .  .  See  you  soon — yourself  out — quick,  if  you 
don't  mind — go,  go !" 

The  next  moment  I  was  out  on  his  landing.  He  had 
almost  carried  me  out.  I  heard  the  locking  of  his  door,  but 
after  that,  though  I  listened,  nothing. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  31 


V 

Presently  it  occurred  to  me  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  waiting.  It  did  not  seem  to  be  an  occasion  for 
calling  for  help,  and  if  there  was  something  he  did  not  wish 
me  to  see  it  was  hardly  a  friend's  part  to  stand  there  listen- 
ing for  it.  Slowly  I  descended  past  the  closed  offices  of  the 
cinema  and  variety  agents  and  let  myself  out  into  the  street. 
Involuntarily  my  eyes  went  up  to  his  window,  but  no  light 
showed  there,  and  I  remembered  that  I  had  drawn  his  cur- 
tains myself.  Among  a  knot  of  people  who  waited  for 
omnibuses  I  stood  on  the  kerb,  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock,  and  Haslemere  was  now  out 
of  the  question.  I  could  have  got  a  bed  at  my  Club,  but  I 
vaguely  felt  that  there  might  be  something  rather  more  to 
the  purpose  to  do  than  that.  For  some  minutes  I  couldn't 
for  the  life  of  me  think  what  it  was.  Four  o'clock  of  that 
afternoon  seemed  an  age  ago.  .  .  .  Then  I  remembered. 
Madge  Aird  might  at  least  be  able  to  throw  a  little  light  on 
the  Daphne  Bassett  aspect  of  the  affair.  She  had  said  she 
would  be  at  home  that  evening,  and  I  can  always  have  a  bed 
at  the  Airds'  for  the  asking. 

I  mounted  a  bus,  descended  at  my  Club,  telephoned  to  Alec 
Aird,  seized  a  bag  I  kept  ready  packed  in  town,  and  by  half- 
past  eleven  was  on  my  way  to  Empress  Gate. 

Alec  himself  opened  the  door  to  me.  He  was  in  his  dinner- 
jacket,  but  had  thrust  his  feet  into  a  comfortable  pair  of  bed- 
room slippers  and  was  smoking  his  everlasting  bulldog  briar 
pipe.  There  were  neither  hats  nor  coats  on  the  hall  table, 
and  he  had  the  air  of  having  the  house  to  himself. 

"Thought  it  would  be  you,"  he  said.  "Lost  your  train? 
Give  me  your  bag — I'm  scared  to  death  of  asking  a  servant 
to  do  anything  after  dinner  these  days.  Come  up." 

"Isn't  Madge  in  ?     She  said  she  was  going  to  be  at  home." 

"Oh,  Madge  calls  it  being  at  home  if  she's  in  by  midnight. 
She's  only  at  the  Nobles.  I  don't  think  she's  going  on  any- 


32  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

where.  Listen" — the  click  of  a  key  had  sounded  in  the 
hall — "there  she  is,  I  expect." 

It  was  Madge.  She  followed  us  up  into  the  drawing-room 
a  moment  later,  gave  me  a  glance  that  was  half  surprised  and 
half  amused,  and  proceeded  to  unscarf  herself.  Alec  was 
relighting  his  pipe  with  the  long  twisted-paper  poker.  There 
was  a  question  in  the  eye  he  cocked  at  her.  Alec  is  fond 
of  home,  and  lives  a  good  deal  of  his  social  life  vicariously, 
sending  Madge  to  represent  him  and  relying  on  her  account 
of  the  proceedings  when  she  gets  back.  This  is  frequently 
lively. 

"Oh,  nobody  much,"  she  chattered.  "The  Tank  Beverleys 
and  the  Hobsons,  and  Connie  Fairham  and  her  escapade,  and 
Jock  Diver  with  Mrs  Hatchett.  Washout  of  an  evening; 
makes  home  seem  quite  nice,  especially  with  George  here. 
Do  give  me  a  decent  peg;  they'd  nothing  but  filthy  cup." 
Then,  as  Alec  busied  himself  at  a  tray,  she  shot  another 
amused  glance  at  me.  "Brought  the  Beautiful  Bear, 
George  ?" 

"I've  just  left  him.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Alec,"  she  said  promptly,  "go  to  bed.  George  and  I  want 
to  talk." 

"Dashed  if  I  do  without  a  tune,"  Alec  grumbled.  "Play 
something." 

Madge  crossed  to  the  music-stool,  set  her  whisky-and-soda 
on  the  sliding  rest,  and  began  to  play. 

I  waited  in  an  extreme  of  impatience.  The  bus-ride  to 
the  Club,  getting  my  bag,  coming  on  to  Empress  Gate,  greet- 
ing Alec — I  suppose  these  things  had  occupied  me  just  suffi- 
ciently to  put  away  for  half  an  hour  the  weight  that  had  been 
placed  upon  me ;  but  now,  as  I  frowned  at  Alec  Aird's  tiles 
and  cut  steel  fender,  that  weight  began  to  reimpose  itself. 
Anxiously  I  wondered  what  might  be  happening  at  that 
very  moment  in  that  other  room  with  the  drawn  curtains, 
the  orderly  shelves  and  the  disreputable  table. 

A  man  who  grew  younger  instead  of  older !  A  man  who 
already  was  ten  years  younger  than  he  had  been  a  few 
months  ago !  He  had  been  quite  right  in  saying,  when  I  had 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  33 

tried  to  take  him  down  to  Haslemere,  that  that  only  meant 
that  I  had  not  yet  taken  it  in.  I  was  as  far  from  being  able 
to  take  it  in  as  ever.  More  and  more  it  forced  itself  on  me 
as  menacing,  inimical,  wild.  What  sane  man  could  believe 
it?  And  yet,  if  it  was  not  to  be  believed,  why  could  I  not 
shake  it  off  ?  Why  did  it  lurk,  as  it  were,  in  the  half-lighted 
corners  of  Madge's  drawing-room,  allowing  me  all  the  time 
I  wished  in  which  to  demonstrate  it  to  be  nonsense,  and 
then,  when  I  had  left  not  one  aspect  of  it  uncriticised  and 
undenied,  reunite  and  face  me  again  exactly  as  before? 

It  happened,  he  said,  while  he  slept;  and  he  had  strictly 
enjoined  on  me  that  if  I  saw  him  falling  asleep  I  was  to  walk1 
straight  out  of  the  place.  "There  are  some  things  I  won't 
ask  even  a  pal  to  go  through."  That  meant  that  during  his 
sleep  those  tufts  of  his  eyebrows  disappeared  and  that  ter- 
rifying strength  descended  on  him  again.  But  what  hap- 
pened before  then?  Was  the  actual  and  physical  change 
simultaneous  with  the  inner  and  mental  one,  or  was  it  merely 
a  confirmation  that  came  afterwards?  Had  he  changed  in 
every  respect  but  form  and  feature  even  as  I  had  talked  to 
him  ?  It  frightened  me  to  think  that  he  had ;  but  the  more  I 
thought  of  it  the  more  it  looked  like  it. 

For  there  had  taken  place  a  struggle  within  him  that  had 
but  increased  in  intensity  as  the  minutes  had  passed.  I 
remembered  the  gravity  with  which  he  had  pondered  my  sug- 
gestion that  for  the  stuff  of  his  novels  he  had  been  too 
directly  to  heaven,  too  straight  to  hell.  I  don't  pretend  to 
know  any  more  about  heaven  and  hell  than  anybody  else,  but 
I  have  the  ordinary  man's  conception  of  the  difference 
between  good  and  evil,  better  and  worse,  and  these  principles, 
it  seemed  to  me,  had  contended  in  him.  And  he  had  striven 
to  throw  the  weight  of  his  personal  will  into  the  worthier 
scale.  There  were  things  he  did  not  wish  to  re-do,  episodes 
he  did  not  wish  to  re-live.  He  had  even  wept  that  he  must 
be  dislodged  from  that  rock  of  his  life  to  which  his  forty- 
five  years  had  brought  him.  .  .  .  But  what  had  followed? 
Suddenly  a  wicked  chuckle.  Violent  expressions  had  crept 
into  his  speech.  A  glitter  had  awakened  in  his  eyes,  as  if, 


34 

since  the  thing  must  be  gone  through  with,  devilry  and  defi- 
ance were  a  more  manly  part  than  weeping.  "Well,  if 
there's  no  help  for  it,  let's  be  thorough  one  way  or  the  other," 
I  could  have  imagined  him  grimly  saying.  .  .  . 

And  if  this  was  so,  what  did  it  mean  but  that  he  had 
actually  grown  younger  before  my  very  eyes  ?  I  was  merely 
shown,  invisibly  and  a  little  in  advance,  what  the  whole  world 
would  realise  when  his  sleep  had  smoothed  out  a  few  more 
wrinkles,  given  a  newer  gloss  to  his  hair  and  an  added  bright- 
ness to  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

And  in  that  case  why  had  I  come  to  see  Madge  Aird? 
What  could  Madge  do?  What  could  anybody  do?  If  the 
thing  was  true  it  was  inescapable.  He  must  go  back.  Not 
one  single  stage  could  be  avoided.  Beyond  these  episodes 
which  he  dreaded  lay  others  that  perhaps  he  need  not  dread, 
and  others  beyond  those,  and  others  beyond  those  .  .  .  until 
he  attained  sixteen.  .  .  . 

I  continued  to  muse  and  Madge  to  play. 

At  last  Alec  got  contentedly  up.  He  straightened  the 
creases  from  his  dinner-jacket. 

"Thanks,  old  girl,"  he  said.  "Well,  I'm  going  to  turn 
in,  and  you  two  can  sit  up  and  yarn  about  your  royalties  if 
you  like.  You  look  after  him,  Madge,  and  see  he  doesn't  get 
hold  of  The  Times  before  I  do  in  the  morning.  Night, 
George.  You  know  where  everything  is " 

And,  refilling  his  pipe  as  he  went,  he  was  off.  Madge 
drew  up  a  small  table  between  us,  untied  the  ribbons  of 
her  cothurnes,  rubbed  the  creases  from  her  ankles,  and 
worked  her  toes  inside  their  sheath  of  silk. 

"Well?"  she  said;  and  then  with  a  little  rapturous  gush, 
"I  can't  get  the  creature's  beauty  out  of  my  head !  That 
skin — that  hair — and  those  wonderful  books!  It  isn't  fair. 
It's  too  many  gifts  for  one  person.  He  ought  to  be  nation- 
alised or  something — turned  over  to  the  public  like  a  park." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  Mrs  Bassett  is,"  I  said. 

She  bargained.  "It's  a  swap,  mind.  If  I  tell  you  about 
her  you  tell  me  about  him." 

"Tell  me  about  her  first." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  35 

"Well"— she  settled  herself  comfortably — "I'm  sorry  to 
see  you  come  down  to  my  own  scandalmongering  level.  Do 
you  want  to  put  her  into  Nonentities  7  Have  Known?  If 
so,  I'll  Who's-Who  her  for  you.  Here  goes.  Bassett, 
Daphne,  nee  Daphne  Wade.  O.D.  (only  daughter,  George) 
of  Horatio  Wade,  rector  of  somewhere  in  Sussex,  I  forget 
where,  but  Julia  Oliphant  will  tell  you.  He,  the  rector,  M. 
(married)  I,  Daphne's  mother,  and  was  M.B.  (married  by) 
2,  the  child's  governess.  He  died  in  the  year  of  his  Lord  I 
forget  exactly  when,  leaving  Daphne  a  little  money,  other- 
wise I  can  hardly  see  Bassett  marrying  her.  But  Hugo 
pulled  it  off  all  right.  My  broker  knows  him.  He's  in  the 
Oil  Crush  now,  but  he  was  playing  margins  on  a  capital 
of  twenty  pounds  when  Daphne  (excuse  my  vulgarity) 
caught  the  last  bus  home." 

"She's  a  friend  of  Miss  Oliphant's,  is  she  ?" 

"She  was.  She  and  Julia  and  Rose  were  children  to- 
gether. But  I'm  not  sure  Julia  speaks  to  her  since  The 
Parthian  Arrow.  She  meant  it  for  him  all  right,  whether 
he  meant  his  for  her  or  not.  Life's  full  of  quiet  humour, 
isn't  it?" 

I  will  abridge  a  little  of  my  friend's  liveliness.  Indeed  as 
she  caught  as  it  were  out  of  the  air  something  of  my  own 
mood,  she  dropped  much  of  it  herself.  This  was  the  sub- 
stance of  what  she  told  me : 

Derwent  Rose  had  written  a  book  called  An  Ape  in  Hell. 
I  don't  know,  Derry  never  knew,  I  don't  think  anybody 
knows  to  this  day,  the  real  origin  of  the  expression  that 
formed  its  title ;  and  if  I  were  a  syndic  of  one  of  these  New 
Dictionaries  I  think  I  should  frankly  confess  as  much,  in- 
stead of  merely  quoting  other  books  as  saying  that  "A 
woman  who  dies  without  bearing  a  child  is  said  to  lead  an 
Ape  in  Hell."  Had  I  written  that  book,  and  in  my  own 
way,  I  think  the  four  corners,  of  the  earth  would  have  heard 
of  it ;  as  Derwent  Rose  had  written  it,  in  his  way,  he  had 
merely  achieved  a  masterpiece  for  the  reading  of  generations 
to  come.  Our  contemporary  agglomeration  (if  Mr  Goddard 
is  right)  of  ten  and  twelve  years  old  intelligences  had  prac- 


36  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

tically  passed  it  over.  Briefly,  the  book  had  to  do  with  the 
merciless  economic  pressure  that  already,  in  1910,  made  it 
difficult  for  people  to  marry  in  the  freshness  of  their  youth, 
and  practically  suicidal  to  have  children.  I  cannot  delay  to 
say  more  of  the  book.  I  saw  in  it  nothing  but  pity  and 
beauty  and  tenderness  and  a  savage  and  generous  anger, 
and  how  anybody  could  have  taken  it  in  any  other  sense  I 
could  not  imagine. 

Yet  one  person  had  done  so — a  friend  of  his  childhood, 
the  author  of  The  Parthian  Arrow. 

"One  moment,"  I  said  when  Madge  arrived  at  this  point. 
"There's  one  thing  that  isn't  quite  clear.  His  book  came 
out  in  1910.  Hers  only  appeared  quite  lately." 

"That's  so,"  she  admitted. 

"But  nobody  brings  out  a  rejoinder  ten  years  after  the 
event." 

"Well — she  did.  Read  the  book.  Another  thing:  she 
started  her  book  immediately  his  appeared,  in  1910." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"Those  sleeves  her  heroine  wears  went  out  in  1910,"  was 
her  characteristic  reply.  "She  never  even  took  the  trouble 
to  bring  them  up  to  date." 

So  that  the  rancour,  if  there  was  any,  was  not  only  per- 
sistent, but  seemed  to  have  a  curiously  desultory  quality  as 
well. 

"Well— go  on,"  I  said. 

But  here  she  broke  out  suddenly:  "But  surely,  George, 
even  you  can  see  where  the  Ape  must  have  hurt  her !" 

"As  I've  neither  seen  the  lady  nor  read  her  book — 

"But  you  know  what  his  book's  all  about.  ...  It  was  in 
her  childlessness  that  she  felt  it." 

"What!"  I  cried.  "Is  anybody  so  stupid  as  to  suppose 
that  a  man  like  Derwent  Rose  would — 

"Wait  a  bit.  Look  at  it  as  she  sees  it.  She  married  at 
twenty-nine.  She's  forty-one  now.  And  nothing's  hap- 
pened, and  nothing's  likely  to.  They  were  boy  and  girl 
together.  Now  suppose  I'd  had  an  affair  with  somebody  in 
my  young  days,  and  had  married  somebody  else,  and  then 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  37 

he'd  gone  and — rubbed  it  in.  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
written  a  Parthian  Arrow  even  then,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
drop  dead  when  I  hear  that  another  woman  did." 

"But — ten  years !" 

"Doesn't  that  just  prove  it?"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "If 
she'd  had  a  baby  the  first  year  she'd  probably  have  forgotten 
all  about  her  book.  But  when  the  second  year  came,  and 
the  third,  and  the  fourth — well,  thank  God  I've  got  my 
Jennie  at  school ;  but  I  can  guess.  These  things  get  worse 
for  a  woman  instead  of  better  as  time  goes  on.  And  now 
she's  forty-one.  I  can't  say  I  see  very  much  mystery  about 
those  ten  years." 

"But,"  I  said,  "all  this  rests  on  the  assumption  that  at  one 
time  they  were  lovers.  He  certainly  didn't  speak  as  if  that 
had  been  so." 

"Ah,  then  he  has  spoken  of  her !     What  did  he  say?" 

"Just  what  you'd  expect  him  to  say,  of  course — that  he's 
awfully  sick  he's  upset  her  without  intending  to,  and  wants 
to  explain." 

She  mused.  Then,  with  the  most  disconcerting  prompti- 
tude, she  laughed  and  threw  her  whole  castle  down  to  the 
ground. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'm  wrong.  If  that  was  really  the  colour 
of  the  Bear's  hide  I  don't  suppose  he'd  be  a  friend  of  yours, 
and  I  certainly  shouldn't  want  to  meet  him.  It's  because  I'm 
probably  wrong  that  it's  so  fascinating.  I  don't  want  to  be 
right  just  yet.  No,  George,  all  I  said  this  afternoon  was 
that  it  was  an  interesting  situation,  and  I  defy  you  to  say  it 
isn't.  Now  tell  me  lots  and  lots  about  him." 

But  that  was  impossible.  Once  more  every  sane  particle 
in  me  was  beginning  to  doubt  whether  I  had  been  in  Cam- 
bridge Circus  that  evening  at  all.  Moreover,  one  other 
thing  had  struck  me  with  something  of  a  shock.  This  was 
those  ten  years  during  which  Mrs  Bassett  had  nursed  her 
anger  against  him.  Those  ten  years,  for  him,  did  not  exist, 
or  existed  only  with  the  most  amazing  qualifications.  As 
mere  time  they  did  not  exist,  but  as  experience  they  did. 
For  him  the  Arrow  and  the  Ape  were  both  contemporaneous 


38  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

and  not.  In  one  sense  ten  years  separated  them,  but  in  an- 
other her  retort  had  come  back  to  him  as  it  were  by  return  of 
post.  Desperately  I  tried  to  envisage  a  situation  so  utterly 
beyond  reason.  I  tried  to  set  it  out  in  my  mind  in  parallel 
columns : 


He    was   thirty-five   when   he 
wrote  his  Ape. 


He    was    forty-five    when    he 
read  the  Arrow. 

But  he  was  thirty-five  again. 

He   was   going    on   getting 
younger. 

He  was  convinced  he  would 
die  at  sixteen. 


She  was  thirty-one  when  she 
read  it  and  began  her  re- 
joinder. 

She  was  forty-one  at  the  time 
that  he  read  it. 

She  was  still  forty-one. 
She  would  get  no  younger. 


But  I  had  to  give  it  up.  It  made  my  head  ache.  It 
shocked  my  sense  of  the  unities.  And  then  fortunately  there 
came  a  revulsion. 

After  all  (I  thought  testily)  Rose  might  consider  himself 
a  confoundedly  lucky  fellow.  What,  after  all,  was  he  grum- 
bling at?  Because  he  was  going  to  have  his  precious, 
precious  youth  all  over  again?  His  health  and  vigour  and 
strength  all  over  again,  so  that  he  could  tear  a  book  in  two 
as  I  might  have  torn  a  piece  of  paper?  His  clear  skin  and 
glossy  hair  and  the  keen  sight  of  his  eyes  once  more?  He 
was  luckier  than  poor  Madge  and  myself !  And  what,  if  that 
American  was  right,  was  he  risking?  Nothing  that  I  could 
see,  unless  he  should  go  beyond  that  age  of  the  maximum 
of  his  faculties,  which  he  was  persuaded  he  would  not  do. 
And  in  addition  to  the  approaching  brilliance  of  his  youth 
it  was  not  impossible  that  he  would  keep  the  whole  of  his 
accumulated  experience  as  well.  Not  for  him  that  old  and 
bitter  cry  that  has  so  often  been  wrung  from  the  rest  of  us : 
"Oh  for  my  life  over  again,  knowing  what  I  know  now!" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  39 

So  far,  at  any  rate,  he  was  having  his  life  again,  knowing 
all  he  knew  at  the  turning-point.  And  the  fellow  was  grum- 
bling ! 

"Now  tell  me  about  him,"  said  Madge. 

But  she  could  not  suppress  a  yawn  as  she  said  it.  I  knew 
that  she,  like  myself,  was  longing  to  slip  out  of  her  clothes 
and  to  get  into  bed. 

"Another  time,"  I  said,  wearily  rising.  "Which  room 
are  you  putting  me  in?" 

As  she  rose  I  did  not  notice  what  it  was  that  she  caught 
up  from  a  side-table  and  put  under  her  wrap.  She  preceded 
me  upstairs.  The  room  into  which  she  showed  me  was  one 
I  had  occupied  before,  and  only  a  minor  change  or  two  had 
since  been  made.  One  of  these  caught  my  eye.  It  was  a 
leather-framed  photograph  of  Miss  Oliphant  that  stood  with 
the  reading-lamp  on  the  bedside  table. 

"Well,  good  night,"  Madge  yawned.  "They'll  bring  you 
tea  up.  Don't  read  too  long — bad  for  the  eyes  and  the  elec- 
tric-light bill " 

Then  it  was  that  I  noticed  the  book  she  had  quietly  slipped 
on  to  the  table.  It  was  Mrs  Bassett's  book,  The  Parthian 
Arrow. 


VI 

Part  of  the  fuss  my  numerous  friends  made  about  my 
Knighthood  was  this  desire  of  theirs  that  my  portrait  should 
be  painted  and  hung  up  in  the  Lyonnesse  Club.  Whether 
in  fact  I  shall  ever  look  down  from  those  buff-washed  walls 
I  am  at  present  unable  to  say.  That  rests  with  Miss  Julia 
Oliphant.  I  myself  merely  have  the  feeling  that  if  she 
doesn't  paint  me  I  hardly  wish  to  be  painted. 

Her  name  was  not  among  those  originally  chosen  by  the 
Portrait  Committee  and  submitted  to  me.  It  was  Madge 
who,  by  half-past  twelve  the  following  day,  had  decided  to 
include  her.  We  were  walking  along  together  to  Gloucester 
Road  Station.  Madge  was  going  out  to  lunch. 


40  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Well,  go  and  see  her,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "But  they  ought 
to  have  let  you  sleep  on,  George.  I  wish  I  hadn't  left  you 
that  book." ' 

"Oh,  I'm  perfectly  fit  and  fresh.  The  Boltons,  you  said  ? 
I  shall  go  and  see  her  this  afternoon." 

"You  say  you  don't  know  her  well  ?" 

"I've  met  her  once." 

We  entered  the  station.  I  took  my  friend's  ticket.  I  saw 
her  to  the  gate  of  her  lift,  and  the  attendant  paused,  his 
hand  on  the  iron  lattice. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  think  you'll  find  that  won't  matter. 
Let  me  know  how  you  go  on.  Good-bye — and  you  can  tell 
the  Bear  from  me  that  no  decent  person  believes  a  word 
of  it." 

And  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  across  the  grille  she  sank 
with  the  lift  into  the  ground. 

I  walked  to  my  Club,  lunched  alone,  and  then,  in  a  corner 
of  the  smoking-room,  busied  myself  with  my  rather  scanty 
recollections  of  the  lady  I  was  going  to  see  that  afternoon. 
Though  I  had  only  actually  met  her  upon  one  occasion,  we 
had  a  sort  of  hearsay  acquaintance  in  addition.  She  and 
Derwent  Rose  had  been  children  together,  and  one  does  not 
begin  quite  at  the  beginning  with  the  friends  of  one's 
friends.  Moreover,  there  are  these  people  whom  one  may 
actually  meet  only  at  wide  intervals,  but  over  whom  absence 
does  not  seem  to  have  its  ordinary  power.  Nothing  seems  to 
ice  over,  you  come  together  again  at  the  point  where  you  left 
off.  Perhaps  because  you  draw  your  nourishment  from  the 
same  elements,  you  are  able  to  take  the  gaps  for  granted. 

Nevertheless,  of  my  own  single  personal  meeting  with 
Miss  Oliphant  I  could  remember  little  but  her  eyes.  I  had 
been  presented  to  her  across  a  small  dinner-table,  with  rosy- 
shaded  electric  candles,  that  had  turned  those  great  eyes 
pansy-black  in  the  pinky  gloom.  I  had  guessed  that  in  the 
daylight  they  were  of  the  deep  brown  kind  that,  alas,  so 
frequently  means  glasses  for  reading  and  distressing  head- 
aches; but  what  had  struck  me  at  the  time  had  been  their 
quiet  readiness  and  familiarity,  as  if  they  said  to  me,  "He's 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  41 

told  me  about  you;  I  wonder  what  he's  said  to  you  about 
me!" 

And  now  those  same  eyes,  photographed  in  a  leather 
frame,  had  watched  me  during  the  whole  of  the  previous 
night.  They  had  watched  me  as  I  had  read  that  awful  book. 
Darkly  watchful  and  expectant,  they  had  seen  my  first 
amazed  incredulity,  then  my  successive  waves  of  anger. 
"But  go  on,"  they  had  seemed  ever  to  urge  me;  "there's 
much  more  to  come !" 

And  under  the  bedside  lamp  they  had  been  still  watching 
me  when  the  maid  had  brought  in  tea  and  had  flung  the  cur- 
tains aside,  admitting  the  bright  sunshine. 

Then,  when  the  book  had  dropped  from  my  hand  to  the 
floor,  they  had  said,  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be  rather  a 
good  thing  if  you  were  to  come  to  see  me?" 

I  am  not  going  to  advertise  that  hateful  book  of  Mrs 
Bassett's.  If  I  could  have  torn  it  in  two  as  Rose  had  torn 
it  I  should  have  done  so.  She  had  hardly  changed  his  name 
— for  what  was  "Kendal  Thorne"  but  Derwent  Rose?  So  I 
will  merely  say  that  to  old  memories  she  had  added  new  and 
malicious  inventions,  and  had  produced  a  ridiculous  gro- 
tesque of  a  vain  and  peevish  childhood,  an  impossibly  blatant 
youth,  and  a  culmination  born  of  her  own  distorted  imagi- 
nation. It  was  for  her,  and  not  for  himself,  that  he  had 
blushed.  For  her  sake  he  would  have  torn  up  every  single 
copy  of  it  if  by  that  means  it  could  never  have  been.  He 
could  have  scolded  her,  shaken  her,  smacked  her,  ashamed, 
angry  and  helpless  as  one  is  before  an  ill-conditioned  child 
who  nevertheless  has  claims  on  one.  That  there  could  ever 
have  been  any  passage  between  them  her  book  put  entirely 
out  of  the  question.  And  so  much  for  The  Parthian  Arrow. 

At  half-past  three  that  afternoon  I  was  at  the  Boltons, 
ringing  Miss  Oliphant's  bell.  A  tiny  maid  admitted  me, 
and  I  was  shown  into  a  sort  of  alcove  with  a  good  deal  of 
tapestry  and  bric-a-brac  and  brass  about,  the  sort  of  things 
the  artists  of  half  a  generation  ago  affected  for  the  sake  of 
their  "colour."  Nor  was  the  studio  into  which  I  was  pres- 
ently shown  much  different  from  a  hundred  other  studios  I 


42  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

had  seen.  These  glass-roofed,  indigo-blinded,  north-lighted 
wells,  I  may  say,  always  depress  me,  and  had  I  to  live  in  one 
of  them  I  should  instantly  have  a  side-window  cut,  so  that 
I  might  at  least  have  a  glimpse  once  in  a  while  of  somebody 
who  passed  in  the  outer  world. 

But  somehow  the  place  suited  Miss  Oliphant.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  north  light.  Artists  choose  the  north  light  be- 
cause it  varies  little,  and  there  was  something  about  her  that 
didn't  vary  very  much  either.  She  came  through  a  portiere- 
hung  door,  and  as  she  stood  there  for  a  moment,  not  sur- 
prised (for  I  had  telephoned  that  I  was  coming),  but  with 
that  familiarity  and  expectancy  once  more  in  her  dark  eyes, 
I  was  able  to  check  this  cool  and  composed  impression  of  her 
with  my  former  one  of  over-lustrous  eyes  in  the  pinky  gloom 
of  the  shaded  lamps  of  the  dinner-table. 

Her  hair,  like  her  eyes,  was  dark;  but  she  had  a  habit 
rather  than  a  style  of  dressing  it.  It  was  piled  in  a  high 
mass  over  her  white  brow,  quite  neatly,  but  rather  as  if  to 
have  it  out  of  the  way  and  done  with  than  as  making  the 
most  of  its  rich  glossy  treasure.  A  dateless,  but  by  no  means 
inappropriate  tea-gown  of  filmy  grey  with  a  gold  thread 
somewhere  in  it  showed  her  long  harmonious  lines  of  limb 
and  allowed  her  breasts  to  be  guessed  at ;  and  the  ripeness 
of  her  shoulders  set  off  her  long  and  almost  too  slender 
neck.  She  had  cool  and  beautiful  hands,  sleeved  to  the 
wrist ;  but  the  daylight  added  to  her  years.  At  our  former 
meeting  I  should  have  said  she  was  thirty-five.  Now  I  saw 
that  she  could  hardly  be  less  than  forty. 

She  took  my  hand  for  a  moment,  smiled,  but  without 
speaking,  and  began  to  busy  herself  at  a  Benares  tray.  She 
reinserted  the  plug  of  an  electric  kettle,  which  immediately 
broke  into  a  purr.  She  listened  for  a  moment  with  her  ear 
at  the  kettle,  and  then  suddenly  filled  the  teapot.  She  spoke, 
once  more  smiling,  through  the  little  cloudlet  of  steam.. 

"Do  sit  down,"  she  said,  indicating  a  "property"  curule 
chair.  "Well,  how's  Derry?  Have  you  seen  him  lately?" 

I  made  a  note  of  the  name  she  too  called  him  by,  and  said, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  43 

Yes,  I  had  seen  him  yesterday.  "I'm  sorry  to  say  he  seemed 
worried,"  I  added. 

"Oh?  What's  worrying  him?"  she  asked,  withdrawing 
the  plug  from  the  wall  and  popping  a  cosy  over  the  pot.  It 
was  a  French  cosy,  a  dainty  little  porcelain  Marie  An- 
toinette, with  a  sac  and  a  padded  and  filigreed  petticoat,  and 
I  remember  thinking  that  if  Miss  Oliphant  ever  went  to 
fancy-dress  dances  the  costume  of  her  cosy  would  have 
suited  her  very  well. 

"Have  you  read  that  horrible  woman's  horrible  book?" 
I  asked  her  point-blank. 

"The  Parthian  Arrow?  Yes,  I've  read  it,"  she  said 
equably. 

"Well,  I  should  say  that's  one  of  the  things  that's  wor- 
rying him,"  I  replied.  "I've  just  read  it,  and  the  taste  of  it's 
in  my  mouth  still." 

She  considered  the  teapot.  "We'll  give  it  two  minutes 
and  then  take  the  bag  out,"  she  remarked.  Then,  "Oh  yes, 
I've  read  it.  I  don't  think  she  need  have  written  it  either. 
But  it  is  written,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  As  for  Derry, 
anybody  who  knows  him  knows  that  his  whole  life's  been 
one  marvellous  mistake  after  another.  He  dodges  it  some- 
how in  his  books,  but  he  knows  nothing  whatever  about 
women  in  real  life.  Never  did.  Sugar?" 

This  was  hardly  what  Madge  Aird  had  led  me  to  expect. 
I  had  gathered  from  her  that  Miss  Oliphant  and  Mrs  Bas- 
sett  had  more  or  less  fallen  out  about  that  book;  in  fact 
Madge  had  definitely  said,  "I'm  not  sure  that  they  speak 
now."  But  here  was  Miss  Oliphant,  Rose's  friend,  not  only 
quite  inadequately  angry  on  the  one  hand,  but  on  the  other 
talking  about  Rose's  ignorance  of  women  almost  as  if  he 
had  been  as  much  to  blame  as  Mrs  Bassett  herself.  .  .  . 
Moreover,  when  a  woman  tells  a  man  that  another  man 
knows  nothing  about  women,  the  man  who  is  spoken  to  in- 
variably tries  the  words  on  himself  to  see  whether  he  too  is 
included  in  the  disparagement.  My  understanding  of  Miss 
Oliphant,  such  as  it  was,  suddenly  failed  me.  I  looked  at 


44  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

her  again  to  see  whether,  and  if  so  where,  I  had  made  a 
mistake. 

She  was  doing  a  perfectly  innocent  little  thing,  one  that 
at  any  other  time  I  might  have  found  charming.  Her  long 
fingers  were  slyly  lifting  the  tops  of  sandwich  after  sand- 
wich in  search  of  the  kind  she  wanted.  A  child  does  the 
same  thing  with  sweets — and  sometimes  goes  beyond  mere 
peeping.  But  the  infantility  o.f  the  gesture  jarred  on  me, 
and  jarred  no  less  when,  her  eyes  meeting  mine,  she  laughed, 
pouted,  and  said :  "Well,  after  all,  I  cut  them."  I  did  not 
smile.  Her  coolness  and  unconcern  when  a  friend  was 
savagely  attacked  disappointed  me.  As  for  the  portrait  that 
was  to  have  been  the  excuse  for  my  call  on  her,  I  was  glad 
now  that  it  hadn't  been  mentioned.  I  now  doubted  whether 
I  should  mention  it.  I  had  supposed  her  to  be  a  woman — 
not  merely  a  female  painter  who  gave  a  male  sitter  tea  in 
her  studio. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  I  said,  a  little  curtly  I'm  afraid. 
"You  speak  as  if  that  book  was  a  mere  point  of  view  to 
which  she's  entitled." 

Again  she  smiled  at  me,  as  if  she  liked  me  very  much. 

"Well,  she  has  her  point  of  view.  It's  evident  that  you 
don't  know  Mrs  Bassett." 

"Her  book's  told  me  all  about  her  that  I  ever  want  to 
know." 

"So,"  she  laughed,  "you're  just  showing  how  cross  you 
can  be  ?" 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  ring  at  the  bell.  She  was 
on  her  feet  instantly,  as  if  to  forestall  the  little  maid.  With 
less  tact  than  ever,  I  thought,  her  fingertips  touched  my 
shoulder  lightly  as  she  passed  by  me.  It  was  only  then  that 
I  noticed  that  the  Benares  tray  held  a  third  cup  and  saucer. 

The  next  moment  she  had  shown  Mrs  Bassett  herself  in. 

I  am  going  to  show  Mrs  Bassett  in  and  out  of  this  story 
again  with  all  possible  speed.  Only  once  have  I  set  eyes  on 
the  lady  since,  and  that  was  in  a  moment  when  I  was  far 
too  occupied  with  other  matters  to  give  her  more  than  a 
glance.  She  came  in,  a  fluff  of  cendre  hair,  surmounted  by 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  45 

a  hat  made  of  a  thousand  brilliant  tiny  blue  feathers.  This 
was  intended  to  enhance  the  pallid  blue  of  her  eyes ;  as  a 
matter  of  fact  it  completely  extinguished  it.  She  was  a 
Christmas-tree  of  silver  stole  and  silver  muff,  toy  dog,  and 
a  pale  blue  padded  and  embroidered  object  that  I  presently 
discovered  to  be  the  dog's  quilt.  I  was  presented  to  her, 
bowed,  and — suddenly  found  myself  alone  with  her.  Miss 
Oliphant  had  picked  up  the  teapot  and  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

And  this  was  the  kind  of  arch  ripple  that  proceeded  from 
the  author  of  The  Parthian  Arrow: 

"Oh,  how  d'you  do,  Sir  George  ?  Really  a  red-letter  day. 
Sir  George  Coverham  and  Julia  Oliphant  together.  Quite  a 
galaxy — or  is  galaxy  wrong  and  does  it  take  more  than  two 
to  make  one,  like  the  Milky  Way? — Oh,  Puppetty,  my  stole! 
— You  mustn't  mind  if  I  ask  you  thousands  of  questions — I 
always  do  when  I  meet  distinguished  people — peep  behind 
the  scenes,  eh? — Puppetty,  I  shall  slap  you!" — a  tap  on  the 
beast's  boot-button  of  a  nose.  "So  handsome,  Julia  is,  don't 
you  think  ?  Not  in  a  picture-postcard  sort  of  way,  perhaps, 
but  such  character  (don't  you  call  it?)  and  such  a  lovely 
figure !  I  know  if  I  were  a  man  I  should  fall  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  her !  Do  you  mind,  Sir  George  ?" 

She  meant,  not  did  I  mind  falling  in  love  with  Miss  Oli- 
phant, but  did  I  mind  taking  the  dog's  cradle  and  quilt  from 
her  arms.  I  did  so,  made  my  bow  as  Miss  Oliphant  ap- 
peared again,  and  moved  quickly  towards  the  alcove  where 
I  had  left  my  hat. 

But  it  was  Miss  Oliphant  herself  who  stopped  me,  and 
stopped  me  not  so  much  by  her  quietly-spoken  words — "I 
want  you  to  stay" — as  by  the  sudden  command  in  her  eyes. 
This  was  quite  unmistakable.  For  the  first  time  since  I  had 
entered  her  studio  I  saw  the  woman  I  had  expected  to  see. 
That  look  was  too  imperious  altogether  to  disobey.  I  sat 
down  again. 

I  swear  that  Mrs  Bassett  wore  that  silver  stole  twenty 
different  ways  in  as  many  minutes.  The  air  about  her  was 
ceaselessly  in  motion.  If  Puppetty  was  in  his  quilted  cradle 


46  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

she  had  him  out ;  if  he  was  out  she  put  him  back  again  and 
tucked  him  in.  She  kissed  and  scolded  the  wretched  beast, 
and  discussed  Miss  Oliphant's  pictures  and  my  own  books. 
Only  her  own  book  she  never  once  mentioned.  And  I  sat, 
saying  as  little  as  possible,  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  two  women. 

Then,  out  of  the  very  excess  of  the  contrast  between  them, 
light  began  to  dawn  on  me.  All  at  once  I  found  myself 
saying  to  myself,  "This  can't  be  what  it  appears  to  be. 
There's  something  behind  it  all.  Look  at  them  sitting  there, 
and  believe  if  you  can  that  the  one  who's  pouring  out  tea 
couldn't,  for  sheer  womanliness,  eat  the  other  alive!  Look 
at  her!  She's  a  whole  packed- full  history  behind  her,  and 
one  that's  by  no  means  at  an  end  yet.  It  radiates  from  every 
particle  of  her.  Of  course  Miss  Oliphant  cares  just  as 
much  as  you  do  when  her  friend's  attacked.  She's  a  differ- 
ent way  of  showing  it,  that's  all.  See  if  she  isn't  putting 
that  other  one  through  her  paces  now,  and  for  your  benefit. 
She's  not  keeping  you  here  without  a  reason.  Sit  still  and 
watch." 

I  repeat  that  I  said  this  to  myself. 

And  from  that  moment  I  knew  I  was  on  the  right  track. 

At  last  Mrs  Bassett  rose  to  go.  I  assure  you  that  I  was 
on  my  feet  almost  before  she  was,  for  I  knew  that  my  talk 
with  Miss  Oliphant  was  not  now  to  be  resumed — it  was  to 
begin.  The  author  of  The  Parthian  Arrow  was  piled  up 
with  quilts,  cradles  and  Puppetty  again,  and  I  need  say  no 
more  about  the  thickness  of  her  skin  than  that  she  gave  me 
her  telephone  number  and  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her.  I 
bowed,  and  Julia  Oliphant  towered  over  her  as  she  showed 
her  out. 

Seldom  in  my  life  have  I  held  a  door  open  for  a  woman 
with  greater  pleasure. 

The  outer  door  closed,  and  Miss  Oliphant  reappeared  and 
crossed  slowly  to  the  settee.  I  now  knew  beyond  all  doubt 
that  I  was  right.  She  seemed  suddenly  exhausted.  She 
passed  her  hand  wearily  over  those  too-lustrous  eyes.  List- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  47 

lessly  she  told  me  to  smoke  if  I  wanted  to.  Then  she  con- 
tinued to  sit  in  silence. 

At  last  she  roused  a  little.    She  turned  her  eyes  on  me. 

"Well — now  you've  seen  the  author  of  The  Parthian  Ar- 
row." 

I  made  no  remark. 

"And,"  she  continued,  "you  did  exactly  as  I  expected — 
exactly  what  a  man  would  do." 

"What  was  that?" 

"You'd  one  look,  and  then  you  turned  away." 

"One  look  was  enough." 

"Oh,  you  all  think  you've  got  rid  of  a  thing  when  you've 
turned  your  backs  on  it.  That's  the  way  men  quarrel.  'Oh, 
So-and-So's  a  bounder;  blackball  him  and  have  done  with 
it.'  And  so  long  as  he  isn't  in  your  Club  he  doesn't  exist 
for  you." 

I  pondered,  my  eyes  on  her  old-fashioned  studio-trappings. 
"Well,  say  that's  a  man's  way  of  defending  his  friend. 
What's  a  woman's  ?" 

Our  eyes  met  once  more,  and  I  knew  a  very  great  deal 
about  Miss  Julia  Oliphant  by  the  time  she  had  uttered  her 
next  six  words. 

"A  woman  has  her  to  tea,"  she  replied. 

Then,  as  if  something  within  her  would  no  longer  be  pent 
up,  she  broke  into  rapid  speech. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  men!  You're  all  too,  too  kind!  For- 
give me  if  I  say  I  think  you  like  the  feeling.  It  pleases  you, 
and  you  don't  stop  to  think  that  it  puts  all  the  more  on  us. 
You  make  your  magnificent  gesture,  but  we  have  to  go 
round  picking  up  after  you.  Do  you  think  I'd  let  that 
woman  out  of  my  sight?  .  .  .  But  I'm  sorry  I  had  to  trick 
you  a  little." 

"To  trick  me?" 

"Yes,  when  you  first  came  in.  I  saw  you  were  puzzled 
and — disappointed  in  me.  You  see,  when  a  person's  coming 
to  tea  and  may  be  here  any  moment  you  have  to  keep  some 
sort  of  hand  on  yourself.  It  isn't  the  time  to  indulge  your 


48  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

real  feelings.  So  I  took  no  chances.  I'm  sorry  if  I  threw 
you  off  the  track.  .  .  .  Well,  you've  seen  her,  and  you've 
read  her  book.  Tell  me  where  you  think  the  toy  dog  comes 
in." 

She  was  speaking  vehemently  enough  now.  She  did  not 
give  me  time  to  reply. 

"I'll  tell  you.  You  and  Derry — all  the  decent  men — a  toy 
dog  fetches  you  every  time.  You're  all  so,  so  kind!  You 
see  tragedies  and  empty  cradles  and  all  the  rest  of  it  straight 
away.  And  perhaps  once  in  a  while  you're  right.  But  you 
can  take  it  from  me  you're  wrong  this  time.  I've  known  her 
all  my  life,  and  I  don't  believe  she  ever  for  a  single  moment 
wanted  a  child.  She'd  never  have  put  up  with  the  bother  of 
one.  So  Berry's  worrying  all  about  nothing.  All  that  sticks 
in  her  throat  is  that  she  imagines  she's  been  pilloried  as  not 
being  able  to  have  one.  Her  vanity  was  hurt,  not  her  moth- 
erhood at  all.  Now  that  she's  got  rid  of  that  bookful  of  bile 
I  think  she's  a  perfectly  happy  woman.  Her  days  are  just 
one  succession  of  shopping  and  matinees  and  calls  and  mani- 
curing and  Turkish  baths  and  getting  rid  of  Bassett's  money. 
It  was  just  the  same  during  the  war — flag-days  and  driving 
convalescents  about,  and  bits  of  canteen-work  and  com- 
mittees by  the  score.  .  .  .  Oh,  Derry  needn't  worry  his 
head;  tragedy's  quite  out  of  the  picture!  Let's  have  the 
truth.  No  weeping  Niobe — just  scents  and  powders  and 
Puppetty  and  an  imaginary  grievance — that's  her." 

I  think  it  is  my  own  sex  that  is  the  merciful  one,  at  any 
rate  to  woman.  Man  has  made  radiant  veils  for  her,  has 
shut  his  eyes  to  this  or  that  stark  aspect  of  her,  because  the 
world  has  to  go  on  by  his  efforts  and  he  cannot  afford  to 
begin  his  scheme  of  things  all  over  again  every  time  he  sees 
the  red  light  of  the  prime  in  a  woman's  eyes.  Julia  Oliphant 
had  spoken  cruelly,  ruthlessly,  without  decency ;  and  I  now 
knew  why.  No  woman  cares  that  a  wrong  is  done  in  the 
abstract.  Her  bitterness  and  hate  ever  mean  that  someone 
dear  to  her  has  been  subjected  to  indignity  and  pain.  And 
suddenly  I  rose  from  my  seat,  crossed  to  the  settee,  and, 
sitting  down  by  Julia  Oliphant's  side,  did  a  thing  I  am  not 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  49 

in  the  habit  of  doing  upon  a  short  acquaintance.  I  took 
both  her  hands  into  mine. 

With  as  little  hesitation  as  I  had  taken  them  her  fingers 
closed  on  mine.  And  I  fancied  the  quick  strong  pressure 
answered  the  question  I  was  going  to  ask  her  before  ever 
my  lips  spoke  it.  It  had  all  been  there  months  before — all 
prepared  and  promised  in  that  first  steady  intimate  look 
across  the  rosy-shaded  candles  of  that  dinner-table.  I  spoke 
quite  quietly. 

"Isn't  there  something  I'd  better  know — and  hadn't  you 
better  tell  me  now?"  I  said. 

Again  that  firm  cool  pressure  of  the  fingers.  The  tired 
eyes  looked  gratefully  into  mine. 

"I  always  knew  you'd  be  like  that  if  only " 

"Then  tell  me.  Because  when  you've  done  I've  something 
to  tell  you." 

God  knows  what  fires  were  instantly  ablaze  in  the  depths 
of  the  eyes. 

"About  him  ?"  broke  instantly  from  her  lips. 

"You  tell  me  first." 

The  fires  died  down,  and  the  voice  dropped  again. 

"Tell  you?  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  ...  Of  course; 
all  my  life ;  ever  since  we  were  children  together.  Not  that 
he  ever  gave  me  a  thought.  But  that  made  no  difference." 

And  having  said  it  she  had  said  all.  I  saw  the  beginning 
of  the  fires  again.  She  went  straight  on.  "Now  what  were 
you  going  to  tell  me  ?" 

Remember  it  was  not  yet  eighteen  hours  since  Derwent 
Rose  had  thrust  me  out  of  his  door,  torn  between  an  angel 
and  a  devil  within  himself.  But  what  are  eighteen  hours 
to  a  man  who  has  two  scales  of  time?  To  him  they  might 
represent  years  of  experience.  He  had  clung  desperately  to 
his  better  man,  but — who  knew? — already  he  might  be  less 
accessible  to  the  angelic.  If  I  was  not  already  too  late,  to 
catch  him  while  he  was  of  that  same  mind  and  will  was  the 
important  thing.  If  this  woman  who  had  just  told  me  with 
such  touching  simplicity  that  she  had  loved  him  all  her  life 
was  indeed  his  good  angel,  it  seemed  to  me  that  here  was 


50  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

her  work  waiting  for  her.  I  saw  her  as  none  the  less  loving 
that  she  could  vehemently  hate  for  the  protection  of  her 
love.  That  she  would  fly  to  him  the  moment  her  mind 
grasped  his  story  I  had  not  an  instant's  doubt.  Nor  did  I 
stop  to  consider  that  I  might  be  betraying  something  he  did 
not  wish  known.  It  was  no  time  for  subtleties.  Remember- 
ing his  anguish,  I  did  not  think  he  would  refuse  any  help 
that  was  to  be  had.  Here  by  my  side  was  his  cure  if  cure 
there  was  to  be  found. 

Still  with  her  hands  in  mine,  I  took  my  plunge. 

The  first  time  she  interrupted  me  was  very  much  where 
I  had  interrupted  him.  She  wanted  to  know,  apart  from 
mere  imaginary  changes  that  might  have  been  due  to  varia- 
ble health,  what  visible  proofs  there  were  of  all  this.  I 
wished  to  spare  her  those  two  (  )  's  on  Rose's  neck,  but  she 
smiled  ever  so  faintly. 

"Yes,  you're  all  nice  dears.  But  I  know  perfectly  well  the 
kind  of  thing  it  might  be.  So  don't  let  that  trouble  you. 
It's  important,  you  know." 

So  I  told  her.  She  merely  nodded.  "He  never  did  know 
anything  about  women,"  she  said.  "Go  on." 

Her  next  interruption  came  when  I  spoke  of  his  tearing 
the  book,  though  this  was  more  of  a  confirmation  than  a  true 
interruption. 

"He  was  a  perfectly  glorious  athlete,"  she  remarked 
calmly,  "but  he  always  hated  pot-hunting,  and  later  of  course 
his  books  interfered  with  his  training  a  good  deal.  I  re- 
member once  .  .  .  but  never  mind.  I  wonder  if  we  shall 
have  all  that  over  again  ?" 

"Then  you've  managed  to  swallow  the  monstrous  thing 
so  far  ?"  I  said  in  wonder. 

"I  told  you  his  life  had  been  one  marvellous  mistake  after 
another.  Go  on,"  she  replied. 

But  as  I  proceeded  her  calm  became  less  and  less  assured. 
I  was  purposely  omitting  from  my  account  such  elements  as 
might  tend  to  agitate  her,  but  she  seemed  to  divine  this,  and 
perhaps  she  thought  I  suppressed  more  than  I  did.  Sud- 
denly she  broke  out : 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  51 

"Never  mind  all  that  about  ratios.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  ratios.  The  point  is,  when  does  he  expect  the  next — 
attack?" 

"I  hardly  know — I  rather  think "  I  began,  now  quite 

violently  holding  her  hands,  which  she  had  tried  to  with- 
draw. She  had  also  attempted  to  rise. 

"Soon?  A  month?  A  week?  To-morrow?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"He's  not  sure  himself,  but  I'm  rather  afraid " 

She  allowed  me  to  say  no  more.  She  plucked  her  hands 
from  mine  and  ran  out  of  the  studio.  I  heard  the  single 
faint  "ting"  of  a  telephone-receiver  being  lifted  from  its 
fork,  and  a  moment  later,  "Is  that  the  taxi-rank  ?  The  Bol- 
tons — Miss  Oliphant — as  quick  as  you  can." 

Three  minutes  later  she  reappeared.  She  had  thrown  a 
wrap  over  her  tea-gown,  and  was  hurriedly  tying  a  scarf 
under  her  chin. 

"Isn't  that  taxi  here  yet  ?  How  long  should  it  take  from 
here  to  Cambridge  Circus?" 

"Twenty  or  twenty-five  minutes." 

"You'd  better  come  with  me.  You  can  tell  me  the  rest  on 
the  way.  .  .  .  What  a  time  he  is  taking!  Wouldn't  it  be 
quicker  to  pick  one  up  outside?  Listen — no,  that's  only 
letters.  Perhaps  the  man's  waiting  and  hasn't  rung — let's 
wait  at  the  street  entrance — here's  your  hat " 

She  opened  the  inner  door,  kicked  aside  the  letters  on  the 
floor,  and  sped  along  the  corridor.  The  taxi  glided  up  as  we 
reached  the  entrance. 

The  next  minute  we  were  on  our  way. 

The  streets  were  full  and  our  progress  was  slow.  People 
were  hurrying  to  their  homeward  tubes,  running  along  in 
knots  of  a  dozen  or  a  score  at  the  tails  of  the  slowing-down 
omnibuses. 

"Surely  there  ought  to  be  a  quicker  way  than  along  Ox- 
ford Street  at  this  hour!"  she  exclaimed  petulantly.  Then 
she  threw  herself  back  in  the  corner.  Apparently  she  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  rest  of  my  story.  One  idea  and  one 
only  possessed  her — haste,  haste.  I  am  perfectly  sure  that 


52  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

had  she  been  in  the  driver's  seat  not  an  uplifted  blue  and 
white  cuff  in  London  would  have  stopped  her. 

And  her  restlessness  communicated  itself  to  me.  I  too 
felt  that  in  talking  to  Madge  Aird  the  previous  evening,  in 
reading  that  wretched  book  all  night,  in  not  having  told  Miss 
Oliphant  straight  away  what  I  had  to  say,  I  had  lost  precious 
time.  Some  step  ought  to  have  been  taken  quicker — im- 
mediately  

"Damn !"  I  said  as  another  extended  arm  stopped  us ;  and 
Julia  Oliphant  sank  back,  biting  her  lip. 

Then  an  endless  wait  at  the  corner  of  Charing  Cross 
Road.  .  .  . 

But  even  that  taxi-drive  had  to  come  to  an  end. 

"It's  just  near  here,  isn't  it?"  she  asked,  her  hand  on  the 
door;  and  I  sprang  out.  It  would  be  quicker  to  walk  the 
last  few  yards.  These  few  yards,  however,  nearly  cost  Miss 
Oliphant  her  life,  for  I  only  just  succeeded  in  dragging 
her  out  of  the  way  of  a  newsboy's  bicycle  that  darted  like  a 
minnow  from  behind  a  heavy  dray.  We  stood  at  Rose's 
door. 

I  pressed  the  button  of  his  bell,  which  was  the  third  of  a 
little  vertical  row  of  four;  but  even  as  I  did  so  I  noticed 
something  unusual  about  its  appearance.  The  little  brass 
slip  that  bore  his  name  had  gone.  I  was  unable  to  say 
whether  it  had  been  there  on  the  previous  evening,  as  he 
himself  had  admitted  me,  but  gone  it  was  now,  and  from 
certain  indications  it  seemed  not  to  have  been  unscrewed, 
but  wrenched  off.  My  heart  sank,  but  I  was  careful  to 
conceal  from  Miss  Oliphant  the  foreboding  I  felt. 

"He  may  be  out,"  I  muttered.  "I'll  ring  for  the  house- 
keeper." 

To  fetch  Mrs  Hyems  up  from  her  basement  took  more 
time,  but  at  last  she  appeared,  and  a  look  of  mingled  per- 
plexity and  relief  came  into  the  eyes  that  met  mine. 

"Mr  Rose?"  I  said. 

"Aren't  you  the  gentleman  as  came  last  night,  sir?"  she 
said.  "Didn't  he  go  out  with  you  ?  I  heard  you  come  down ; 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  53 

about  eleven  o'clock  it  would  be;  and  he  didn't  seem  to  be 
not  a  minute  after  you " 

"Hasn't  he  been  back  since?" 

''I  can't  make  it  out,  sir. .  He  hasn't  been  to  bed,  and  there 
was  a  note  for  me  on  his  table  this  morning.  Paid  all  up  he 
has,  but  not  a  word  about  his  milk  nor  his  washing  nor  his 
letters  nor  when  he's  coming  back.  And  he  left  his  door 
open,  which  that  isn't  his  way.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  come 
up,  sir?" 

We  followed  her  up  the  stairs.  His  door  still  stood  wide 
open,  and  as  far  as  I  could  see  his  room  was  exactly  as  I 
had  left  it  last  night.  The  medicine-ball  still  lay  where  it 
had  rolled  on  the  floor,  the  cushions  of  the  sofa  still  bore 
the  imprint  of  his  body.  I  turned  to  the  caretaker. 

"You  say  he's  paid  you,  Mrs  Hyems  ?" 

"To  the  end  of  the  week,  sir,  except  for  his  washing  and 
ceterer." 

"And  he's  left  no  address  ?" 

"No  more  than  I  tell  you,  sir." 

"Then,"  I  said  briskly,  "I  should  just  tidy  his  room  and 
close  his  door.  He'll  probably  be  back  to-night.  If  he  isn't 
let  me  know.  Here's  my  address." 

But  as  I  said  it  I  seemed  to  see  again  those  marks  where 
his  name-plate  had  been.  Derry  always  carried,  suspended 
in  his  trousers-pocket  by  a  little  swivelled  thong,  one  of  those 
fearsome-looking  compendium  knives  that  consist  of  half 
a  dozen  tools  in  one.  The  plate  had  not  been  unscrewed; 
what  he  had  done  had  been  to  thrust  one  of  these  blades 
behind  it  and  to  rip  it  bodily  from  its  bed.  I  pictured  it  all 
only  too  clearly.  Myself  carefully  watched  out  of  the  way 
— a  cheque  hurriedly  written — a  gulp  of  whisky  perhaps  and 
the  call  of  the  streets — a  dash  downstairs  with  his  door  left 
open  behind  him — a  minute's  feverish  work  over  the  plate. 
...  He  had  left  his  books,  his  papers,  his  furniture,  his 
medicine-ball.  But  his  name  he  had  taken  away,  and  I  did 
not  think  that  those  rooms  in  Cambridge  Circus  would  see 
Derwent  Rose's  face  any  more. 


PART  II 
THE  STERN  CHASE 


Lost:  A  man  with  a  brass  name-plate  in  his  pocket,  prob- 
ably bent  in  wrenching.  Personal  appearance  difficult  to 
describe,  because  something  has  happened  to  him  that  does 
not  happen  to  the  generality  of  people.  When  last  seen  ap- 
peared to  be  about  thirty-five,  but  may  look  younger.  Was 
wearing  dark  blue  suit  and  shirt  with  torn  neckband. 

Missing:  Derwent  Rose,  novelist,  late  of  120  bis,  Cam- 
bridge Circus,  W.C.  Age  forty-five,  tall  and  very  strongly 
built,  eyes  grey-blue,  hair  chestnut-brown,  strikingly  hand- 
some features.  In  possession  of  money,  as  his  banking 
account  was  closed  the  morning  after  his  disappearance. 
Served  with  Second  Battalion  Royal  Firthshire  Fusiliers. 
Is  thought  not  to  have  left  the  country. 

For  Disposal:  Quantity  of  black  oak  furniture,  comprising 
Jacobean  oval  table  with  beaded  edge  (copy),  six  upright 
chairs,  tallboy,  chest ;  also  large  brass  bedstead,  drawers,  two 
pairs  heavy  damask  curtains,  crockery,  plate,  etc.,  etc.  Also 
several  thousand  volumes,  including  small  collection  medical 
works,  and  others  Curious  and  Miscellaneous.  The  whole 
may  be  viewed  at  120  bis,  Cambridge  Circus,  W.C.  Apply 
Caretaker. 

So  the  announcements  might  have  run  had  there  been  any ; 
but  there  were  none.  I  saw  to  that.  The  police  are  excellent 
people,  but  I  considered  this  a  little  out  of  their  line  and  did 
not  call  them  in.  As  for  the  furniture  and  effects,  they  re- 
mained for  the  present  where  they  were,  I  paying  his  rent 
and  putting  his  key  into  my  pocket.  As  for  Derwent  Rose, 
novelist,  aged  forty-five,  it  might  be  months  before  anybody 
missed  him,  and  it  would  be  supposed  that  he  had  gone  into 

57 


58  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

retirement  to  write  a  book.  As  for  the  man  with  the  torn 
neckband  and  the  brass  name-plate  in  his  pocket,  a  prudent 
person  would  be  a  little  careful  how  he  tried  to  identify  him. 
You  see  what  I  mean.  Julia  Oliphant  and  myself  were  in  a 
class  apart;  we  should  know  him  on  sight,  since  we  knew 
what  had  happened  to  him  and  what  we  might  expect.  But 
nobody  else  knew,  nobody  in  the  whole  wide  world.  There- 
fore they  would  be  wise  to  look  at  him  twice  before  accost- 
ing him.  Nobody  wants  to  be  certified  and  locked  up,  and 
that  was  what  might  conceivably  happen  if  anybody  insisted 
too  much  on  resemblance  or  identity  in  the  case  of  a  man 
who  was  obviously  fifteen  or  twenty  years  younger  than  he 
could  be  proved  to  be.  Much  safer  to  call  the  fancied  re- 
semblance a  coincidence  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Therefore — exit  Derwent  Rose,  novelist,  aged  forty-five. 

And  enter  in  his  stead — who? 

Exactly.  That  was  the  whole  point.  He  had  not  entered. 
He  was  somewhere  on  Life's  stage,  but  behind,  or  in  the 
wings,  or  up  in  the  flies,  or  down  underneath  the  traps.  He 
was  his  own  understudy,  but  whatever  lines  he  spoke,  what- 
ever gestures  he  made,  happened  "off."  The  call-boy  ran 
hither  and  thither  calling  his  name,  but  in  vain.  Oblivion 
had  taken  him.  It  had  taken  him  so  completely  that  he 
needed  to  dress  no  part,  to  alter  himself  with  no  make-up. 
He  was  as  free  to  walk  about  in  the  limelight  as  you  or  I. 
Freer — far  freer — 

For  where  was  the  birth  certificate  of  this  man  who  had 
lost  ten  years  in  a  few  months  and  for  all  anybody  knew 
might  now  have  lost  another  ten — twelve — twenty?  Of 
what  use  was  his  dossier  in  the  Military  Records  Office? 
Of  what  value  was  his  name  on  the  register,  his  will  if  he 
had  made  one,  his  signed  contracts,  his  insurance  policy? 
Of  what  validity  was  the  photograph  on  his  passport,  or  who 
could  call  him  into  Court  as  a  witness  ?  What  clergyman  or 
Justice  of  the  Peace  could  certify  that  he  had  known  him 
for  a  number  of  years?  What  musty  and  mendacious  file  in 
Somerset  House  dare  produce  a  record  to  show  that  a  man 
who  was  obviously  so  many  years  younger  had  been  born 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  59 

in  the  year  1875  ?  Free,  this  Apollo  for  beauty  and  Ajax  for 
strength?  As  far  as  documents  were  concerned  he  was 
more  than  free.  He  had  side-stepped  them  all,  and  was  the 
only  completely  free  man  alive. 

But  he  was  not  free  from  Julia  Oliphant  and  myself,  for 
we  knew  all  about  it.  His  own  brother  he  might  fool,  had 
he  had  one ;  he  might  delude  the  nurse  who  had  rocked  him 
as  a  child  were  she  still  alive;  but  us  he  could  not  deceive. 
With  us  his  unimaginable  alibi  would  not  serve  nor  his 
unique  anonymity  go  down.  If  he  wished  to  know  us,  he 
could  come  up  to  us  (but  to  us  only)  with  a  proffered  hand 
and  an  ordinary  "How  do  you  do."  But  if  he  did  not  wish 
to  know  us  he  had  us  to  fear.  W7e  knew  his  secret. 

But  nobody  else — nobody  in  the  whole  round  world  else. 


II 

That,  in  its  essence,  and  speaking  very  roughly,  was  the 
position ;  but  it  is  worth  examining  a  little  more  particularly. 
I  will  leave  aside  for  the  moment  such  questions  as  why  we 
wanted  to  find  him,  whether  we  ought  to  try  to  find  him, 
whether,  if  a  man  chose  to  expunge  his  identity  like  that  he 
had  not  a  perfect  right  to  do  so.  I  will  assume  that  he  was 
to  be  sought  and  found.  On  that  assumption  I  reasoned  as 
follows : 

Here — somewhere — was  a  man  of  unknown  age  and  un- 
certain personal  appearance.  When  last  seen  he  was,  and 
looked,  thirty-five,  but  he  may  now  be,  and  look,  any  age  up 
to,  or  rather  down  to,  sixteen.  That  depended  entirely  on 
the  rate  of  those  backward  jerks  of  which  he  himself  had 
failed  to  find  the  ratio.  But  where  begin  to  look  for  him? 
At  what  Charing  Cross  or  Clapham  Junction,  where  all  the 
world  passes  sooner  or  later,  wait  for  him?  What  tube 
station  watch?  Round  what  street  corner  lurk?  Examine 
it,  I  say,  a  little  more  closely. 

And  take  first  his  two  scales  of  time.  As  a  matter  of  in- 
controvertible fact  he  was  living  in  the  year  1920.  In  the 


60  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

year  1920  a  big  and  handsome  and  athletic  man  was  living 
a  daily  life,  presumably  somewhere  in  London.  But  for 
him  that  year  was  1910,  and  continually,  day  by  day  and 
hour  by  hour,  he  must  be  struggling  to  reconcile  those  two 
periods.  It  could  make  no  difference  that  he  knew  that  he 
was  living  in  both  years  simultaneously.  A  hundred  times 
a  day  he  might  say  to  himself,  "I  quite  understand;  this  is 
both  1910  and  1920;  I've  got  them  perfectly  clear  and  sep- 
arate in  my  head."  But  the  hundred-and-first  time  would 
catch  him  tripping.  He  would  stumble  over  some  sudden 
and  unexpected  trifle.  Let  me  make  this  clear  by  means  of  a 
small  incident  that  happened  to  myself.  Not  long  ago  I  walked 
into  Charbonnel's  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  was  passing  through 
the  shop  on  the  ground  floor  and  about  to  mount  the  stairs 
when  I  was  politely  fetched  back.  I  was  told,  with  a  smile 
that  might  have  been  given  to  a  man  just  returned  from 
Auckland  or  Mesopotamia,  that  the  upper  room  had  been 
closed  for  some  time.  I  had  not  been  in  Charbonnel's  since 
the  early  days  of  the  war,  and  was  looking,  in  1920,  for  a 
Charbonnel's  that  had  ceased  to  exist. 

So  Derwent  Rose,  however  much  he  was  on  his  guard, 
would  once  in  a  while  find  himself  looking  for  something 
that  no  longer  existed. 

Next,  there  was  the  question  of  money — common  money, 
and  how  much  of  it  he  had  got.  Obviously,  and  supposing 
he  was  to  be  found,  it  was  no  good  looking  for  him  in  places 
where  he  could  not  possibly  afford  to  be.  He  would  be 
found  in  a  cheaper  place  or  a  more  expensive  one  according 
to  the  state  of  his  purse.  I  had  no  means  of  knowing  how 
much  money  he  had  withdrawn  from  the  bank.  I  had  never 
known  much  about  his  finances  except  that  sometimes  he  had 
been  hard-up,  at  others  comparatively  "flush,"  but  that  he 
had  never,  as  far  as  I  knew,  borrowed.  Thus  the  vulgarest 
of  all  considerations  had  an  important  bearing  on  our  very 
first  step :  Where  to  look  for  him  ? 

Next  there  was  to  be  considered  a  combination  of  these 
things — the  factor  of  money-plus-time.  Say  he  had  drawn 
one  hundred  pounds  or  five  hundred  pounds  from  the  bank 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  61 

— for  all  I  knew  it  might  have  been  either,  or  more,  or  less. 
Well,  we  all  know  that  a  sum  that  was  sufficient  for  a  man 
in  1910  does  not  go  very  far  in  1920.  There  has  been  a  war. 
...  So  was  he  haunting  expensive  places,  having  (as  might 
have  been  said  of  anybody  but  him)  "a  short  life  and  a  gay 
one,"  or  would  he  be  found  spinning  out  his  Bradburys  as 
long  as  possible  on  a  modester  scale?  Nay,  was  he  even 
living  on  his  capital  at  all  ?  Was  it  not  possible  that  he  had 
found  employment  of  some  kind?  If  so,  of  what  kind? 
They  ask  few  questions  about  identity  at  the  dock-gates ;  was 
that  it,  and  was  he  to  be  looked  for  in  a  workman's  early- 
morning  tram  ?  Or  had  he,  a  man  without  a  shred  of  paper 
to  be  his  warranty,  managed  to  talk  somebody  into  something 
bigger,  and  was  he  one  of  these  ephemeral  Business  Bubbles, 
lording  it  for  a  few  months  in  somebody  else's  car  and  float- 
ing the  higher  because  of  the  hotness  of  the  air  inside  him  ? 
I  did  not  think,  by  the  way,  that  either  of  these  last  two 
things  was  very  likely ;  but  nothing  was  more  impossible  than 
anything  else,  and  I  am  merely  trying  to  show  the  size  of  the 
haystack  in  which  we  must  hunt  for  our  needle. 

The  merest  glance  at  the  problem  made  it  plain  that  the 
only  starting  point  was  his  last  actually-known  age — thirty- 
five.  All  jelse  was  the  blindest  guesswork.  And  it  was 
equally  plain  that  the  best  likelihood  of  finding  him  lay  in  the 
chance  that  he  would  more  or  less  repeat  (or  seek  to  repeat) 
his  former  experiences  at  that  age.  Past  associations  might 
pull  him,  he  might  frequent  some  places  rather  than  others, 
some  persons  or  class  of  persons  rather  than  others.  The 
question  was,  could  his  life  at  thirty-five  be  so  reconstructed 
that  this  hope  should  not  be  too  slender  ?  That  was  my  idea, 
and  I  began  to  ransack  my  memory  in  search  of  indications 
that  might  further  it. 

But  almost  from  the  start  I  despaired.  Sketched  thus 
airily  the  thing  had  a  deluding  look  of  logic  and  simplicity  ; 
but  the  first  contact  with  actuality  scattered  all  to  the  winds 
again.  For  example,  I  have  hinted  at  an  echo  of  an  earlier 
wildness  that  had  for  some  reason  or  other  overtaken  him 
again  at  thirty-five ;  but  when  I  came  to  examine  it  I  found 


62  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

that  I  knew  almost  nothing  at  all  about  it.  He  had  always 
had  the  decency  to  keep  these  things  very  much  to  himself.  I 
had  not  the  vaguest  idea  of  who  his  companions  had  been, 
what  his  haunts.  Added  to  this  was  the  difficulty  that  I  was 
approaching  the  question  in  reverse.  He  had  slept  since  I 
had  last  seen  him,  and,  sleeping,  had  presumably  once  more 
slipped  back.  But  how  far  back?  He  might  be  (so  to 
speak)  at  the  crest  of  the  wave,  farther  back  still  at  the  be- 
ginning of  it,  or  even  past  it  altogether — no  longer  the  man 
of  An  Ape  in  Hell,  but  him  of  The  Vicarage  of  Bray.  It  was 
even  not  impossible  that  he  was  sixteen  and  dead.  ...  So 
all  that  I  could  do  was  to  nail  myself  firmly  down  to  thirty- 
five  and  as  much  of  him  at  that  time  as  I  could  remember  or 
ascertain. 

And  instantly  the  question  loomed  up  largely  :  "What  about 
Julia  Oliphant  ?  Hadn't  she  better  be  left  out  of  this,  at  any 
rate  for  the  present?" 

Now  my  position  in  the  world  practically  forces  the  con- 
ventional attitude  on  me.  All  things  considered,  I  think  I 
should  adopt  that  attitude  in  any  case,  for  I  have  only  to 
look  at  any  other  one  and  my  hesitation  doesn't  last  long. 
But  at  the  same  time  I  do  go  to  lectures  on  such  subjects  as 
Relative  and  Absolute  Age,  and  in  other  things,  as  I  have 
explained,  I  liked  at  that  time  to  keep  in  step  and  abreast. 
I  have  even  made  an  attempt  to  understand  the  mystery  that 
is  called  the  Thermionic  Valve. 

But  neither  valve  nor  age  theory  is  newer  or  stranger  to 
me  than  the  change  that  seems  to  have  come  over  the  sex- 
relationship  during  these  last  years.  I  trust  that  on  the 
whole  I  manage  to  maintain  a  happy  medium — it  is  the 
dickens  of  a  thing  to  have  sprung  on  one  latish  in  life — but 
I  only  know  that  I  myself,  old-fashioned  as  I  am,  sometimes 
find  myself  discussing  with  the  nicest  women,  and  as  freely 
as  I  should  discuss  them  with  a  man,  the — may  I  say  the 
"rummest"  subjects?  And  as  for  Julia  Oliphant's  attitude 
to  all  this  newness,  I  will  only  say  that  while  she  might  have 
been  ten  years  behind  Madge  Aird  in  matters  of  dress,  she 
was  not  ten  minutes  behind  her  in  anything  else. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  63 

But  discussions  "in  the  air"  with  her  were  one  thing,  but 
discussions  of  an  actual  Derwent  Rose  at  thirty-five  quite 
another.  "Oh,  I  know  perfectly  well  the  sort  of  thing  it 
might  have  been,  so  don't  let  that  worry  you,"  she  had  said, 
and  for  once,  just  once,  I  had  had  to  be  precise.  But  once 
was  enough.  Call  it  the  old  fossil  in  me  if  you  will,  but  it 
makes  a  very  great  difference  when  a  woman  has  said,  as 
simply  as  Julia  had  spoken,  "Of  course ;  all  my  life ;  not  that 
he  ever  gave  me  a  thought,  but  that  doesn't  matter." 

For  those  few  words  had  placed  us,  instantly  and  beyond 
all  recall,  on  a  footing  of  the  last  intimacy.  They  had  re- 
vealed her  once  for  all,  and  the  matter  need  never  be  re- 
ferred to  between  us  again.  And  as  to  a  swimmer  the 
wavelet  that  slaps  his  face  and  fills  his  mouth  with  salt  is 
of  more  importance  than  all  the  immensities  below,  so  we 
kept  to  the  level  of  the  trifles  of  life.  Often,  at  a  word  or 
a  look,  we  were  ready  to  quarrel.  Perhaps,  in  view  of  those 
still  depths  beneath,  our  bickering  was  a  necessity  and  a 
refuge. 

Ill 

That  there  was  much  of  my  search  that  I  should  have  to 
conduct  without  her  was  definitely  brought  home  to  me  on 
the  very  first  evening  when  I  took  a  stroll  through  the  region 
of  the  West  End  theatres,  still  wearing  the  suit  I  had  worn 
all  day.  I  ought  to  say  that  as  I  was  paying  his  rent  for 
him  I  had  allowed  myself  the  use  of  his  rooms,  and  for  the 
present  120  bis,  Cambridge  Circus,  was  one  of  my  addresses. 
There  was  always  the  chance  that  he  might  have  forgotten 
something  in  1920  of  which  he  had  need  in  1910,  and  that  he 
might  steal  in,  if  only  for  a  moment,  any  dark  night  when 
things  were  quiet. 

It  was  a  beautiful  London  evening,  not  quite  twilight.  A 
tender  after-glow  lay  over  the  Circus,  and,  if  jewels  can 
grow,  the  lamps  might  have  been  jewels  a  few  moments 
after  their  birth.  It  was  one  of  those  evenings  when  you 
delay  even  to  dine,  knowing  that  when  you  come  out  again 


64  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

the  glamour  will  have  gone  and  you  will  have  seen  a  loved 
and  familiar  thing  once  more  and  once  less.  So  I  strolled, 
scanning  faces,  sometimes  remembering  what  I  was  scanning 
them  for,  sometimes  forgetting  again.  It  might  happen  that  I 
should  find  myself  suddenly  looking  into  his  face.  Of  course 
the  chances  were  millions  to  one  that  I  should  not. 

I  walked  as  far  as  the  Hippodrome,  and  then  turned  and 
crossed  the  road.  Even  in  those  few  minutes  the  sky  was 
no  longer  the  same.  It  was  mysteriously  bluer,  and  the  soft 
crocus-quality  of  the  lamps  had  gone.  I  found  myself  op- 
posite a  doorway  with  a  coronet  of  lights  over  it  and  a  tall 
commissionaire  beneath  them.  A  man  had  just  gone  in.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  like  Rose,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  I 
should  have  followed  him  more  than  any  other  man;  but  I 
did  follow  him,  not  into  the  bright  and  crowded  and  smoky 
ground-floor  room  of  which  I  had  a  glimpse,  but  up  a  stair- 
case with  brass-edged  treads  and  the  word  "Lounge"  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  I  found  myself  in  an  empty  upper  room  with 
leather-covered  sofas  set  deeply  into  the  walls,  numerous 
little  tables  with  green-tiled  tops,  and  a  small  quadrant  of  a 
bar  in  one  corner.  The  man  I  had  followed  was  already  at 
this  bar,  and  the  young  woman  behind  it  was  preparing  his 
drink. 

"Bit  quiet,  isn't  it?"  I  heard  him  say.  He  had  rather  a 
pleasing  sort  of  face,  of  the  kind  that  a  year  or  two  ago  one 
associated  with  the  brimmed  hat  of  an  Australian  trooper. 
"Say,  is  this  the  best  London  can  do  for  a  man  nowadays?" 

"London  nowadays!"  the  young  woman  declared  with 
contempt.  "/  should  say  so !  Where've  you  been  this  long 
time?  Where  the  bluebottles  go  to  in  the  winter  I  suppose. 
Don't  you  know  this  is  a  tea-room  now?" 

"Go  on !" 

"A  tea-room,  I  tell  you.  Ladies  not  admitted  after  five. 
The  new  sign'll  be  up  to-morrow.  Oh,  you  can  bring  your 
old  grannie  here  now !" 

"Bit  different  from  Stiff  Brown's  time  then !" 

"Different  !- 

The  conversation  continued,  in  the  same  sense.     It  was 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  65 

precisely  my  Charbonnel's  experience  over  again.  What- 
ever notoriety  the  place  might  once  have  possessed,  it  was 
now  a  perfectly  reputable  resort,  a  tea-room  in  the  after- 
noons, and  in  the  evenings  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the 
equivalent  of  my  own  Club.  The  woman  behind  the  bar  wore 
a  wedding  ring,  and  I  distinctly  liked  the  look  of  her  com- 
panion. -And  yet,  with  dramatic  suddenness,  the  whole  pros- 
pect before  me  seemed  to  be  all  at  once  inimitably  enlarged. 

For  if  a  normal  man  like  my  friend  at  the  counter  was 
struck  by  the  changes  of  the  past  five  years,  how  must  they 
strike  a  man  who  had  gone  through  an  experience  so  utterly 
abnormal  as  that  of  Derwent  Rose?  Change  is  the  normal 
condition  of  all  things ;  the  human  mind  is  marvellously  able 
to  adapt  itself  to  altered  circumstances  in  a  week,  a  day,  an 
hour;  memories  lose  their  fresh  edge,  novelties  amuse  and 
give  way  to  newer  novelties  still.  But  all  this  is  only  for 
men  who  march  forward  with  their  fellows.  For  the  man 
who  marches  backwards  all  is  turned  round.  The  memories 
stir  and  revive  and  bloom  again,  the  forgotten  is  re-remem- 
bered, laid  ghosts  begin  to  walk.  The  dulled  brass  edges  of 
staircases  become  bright  again  with  the  rubbing  of  light  and 
frail  and  vanished  feet,  recessed  sofas  in  upper  rooms  thrill 
and  rustle  with  whispers  and  frou-frou  and  laughter  again. 
Doubtless  the  living,  1920  successors  of  those  ghosts  were  to 
be  found  elsewhere,  but  unless  I  sought  Derry  in  1910  I  knew 
not  where  to  begin  to  look  for  him.  Musingly  I  descended 
the  stairs  and  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  Criterion 
again.  I  no  longer  watched  faces.  The  whole  thing  seemed 
hopeless.  I  had  about  as  much  chance  of  finding  Derwent 
Rose  in  London  as  I  had  of  catching  one  given  drop  of  a 
summer  shower. 

And  then,  in  that  very  moment,  I  saw  him. 

Or  rather  it  was  the  hansom  that  I  saw  first.  It  had  just 
started  forward  with  the  release  of  the  traffic  opposite 
Drew's,  at  the  top  of  Lower  Regent  Street. 

Now  a  hansom  in  Piccadilly  Circus  to-day  is  perhaps  not 
the  rarity  that  a  sedan-chair  would  be ;  nevertheless  hansoms 


66  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

are  comparatively  few,  and  therefore  conspicuous.  The 
padded  leaves  of  this  one  were  thrown  back,  and  before  I 
saw  him  I  had  already  seen  a  white-sheathed  ankle  and  a 
white  satin  slipper. 

Then  he  leaned  forward  for  a  moment. 

It  was  unmistakably  he. 

The  hansom  passed  along  with  the  stream. 

Unmistakably  he — and  yet,  mingled  with  the  perfect  fa- 
miliarity, there  was  a  change  that  I  could  not  immediately 
analyse.  Then  (I  am  telling  you  what  flashed  instantane- 
ously through  my  mind  in  that  fraction  of  time  before  I  had 
dashed  after  him) — then  I  had  it!  Familiar,  yet  not  alto- 
gether familiar!  Of  course! 

His  beard! 

At  one  time  in  the  past  Derwent  Rose  had  worn  a  beard, 
the  softest  sprouting  of  curling  golden-brown.  In  certain 
lights  it  had  been  little  more  than  a  glint  that  had  scarcely 
hid  the  contours  beneath,  and  it  had  made  him  the  living 
image  of  Du  Maurier's  drawings  of  Peter  Ibbetson.  He 
now  had  that  young  beard  again,  and  he  and  it  and  the  han- 
some  with  the  white  satin  slippers  in  it  had  disappeared 
behind  a  bus  opposite  Swan  and  Edgar's. 

I  dashed  across  to  the  island  and  dodged  in  front  of  the 
nose  of  a  horse ;  but  I  could  not  see  the  hansom.  There  were 
four  directions  in  which  it  could  have  gone:  up  Regent 
Street,  Glasshouse  Street,  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  or  east  past 
the  Pavilion.  Then  a  taxi  slowed  down  immediately  in  front 
of  me,  and  I  found  myself  standing  on  the  step  of  it,  holding 
the  door  open  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  pointing 
past  the  driver's  head. 

"That  hansom  in  front — follow  that  hansom " 

We  tried  Regent  Street  first,  for  I  remember  seeing  the 
revolving  doors  of  the  Piccadilly;  but  no  hansom  was  to  be 
seen.  I  thrust  my  head  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Quick — turn — try  Shaftesbury  Avenue,"  I  cried. 

He  turned,  but  not  quickly.  It  was  a  good  two  minutes 
before  we  reached  the  Grill  Room  entrance  of  the  Monico. 
Then  I  lost  my  temper. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  67 

"A  hansom,  man — damn  it,  a  hansom!  Can't  you  follow 
the  only  hansom  left  in  London?  Ask  that  man  on  point- 
duty " 

But  I  got  the  impression  that  the  police  do  not  look  with 
too  much  favour  on  roving  orders  to  follow  other  vehicles 
to  unspecified  addresses.  The  constable  was  curt. 

"There  was  a  hansom  a  minute  ago.  If  you've  got  his 
number  try  Scotland  Yard.  Come  along,  you  can't  stop 
here " 

I  sank  back  cursing.  In  the  very  moment  when  pure 
chance  had  given  him  to  me  I  had  lost  him  again.  By  this 
time  he  was  probably  half  a  mile  away.  There  was  nothing 
whatever  to  be  done. 

"Where  to  now  ?"  grunted  the  driver. 

Nothing  to  be  done — nothing  whatever. 

"Cambridge  Circus,  120,"  I  said. 

As  well  there  as  anywhere  else.  He  might  just  possibly 
be  on  his  way  there.  He  still  had  a  key  the  duplicate  of 
which  was  in  my  own  pocket. 

I  descended  at  Cambridge  Circus,  let  myself  in  and 
mounted  to  his  rooms.  He  was  not  there,  for  no  light 
showed  under  the  door.  I  switched  on,  hung  up  my  hat  in 
his  little  recess,  and  sat  down  on  his  sofa.  Then,  mortified, 
but  trying  to  tell  myself  that  I  was  not  actually  any  worse 
off,  I  sought  to  dissect  that  momentary  impression  of  him 
that  was  all  that  remained  to  me. 

A  hansom,  and  his  beard  again!  That  antiquated  black- 
mutton-chop-shape  balanced  on  two  spidery  wheels,  and  that 
fair  and  tender  sprouting !  Both  were  anachronistic,  and  yet 
there  was  a  certain  suitability  about  both.  Comparatively 
few  young  Englishmen  have  beards  nowadays,  but  then  com- 
paratively few  young  Englishmen  are  in  their  forties  and 
their  thirties  at  the  same  time.  He  had  always  looked  hand- 
some in  his  beard,  rather  like  something  from  a  Greek  or 
Roman  gallery  come  to  life  again,  and  so  he  was  right  to 
have  let  it  grow.  As  for  the  hansom,  he  might  have  taken 
it  merely  because  it  was  the  last  vehicle  left  on  the  rank, 
refused  by  everybody  else,  or  there  might  have  been  a 


68  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

subtler  reason  for  his  choice.  A  browny-gold  beard  and  a 
hansom !  Yes,  both  were  "in  the  picture." 

But  neither  beard  nor  hansom  helped  me  to  what  I  most 
anxiously  wanted  to  know — how  far  back  in  years  he  had 
now  gone.  In  the  ordinary  way  a  beard  may  make  a  young 
man  look  older;  but  then  Rose  was  paradoxically  younger 
than  he  was.  He  might  now  be  twenty-five  who  looked 
thirty-five  because  of  the  beard,  or  he  might  be  thirty-five 
looking  precisely  that  age. 

I  would  have  given  fifty  pounds  at  that  moment  for  one 
long,  steady  look  at  him  in  a  good  light. 

However,  certain  things  were  in  their  way  reassuring.  He 
was  in  London,  and  apparently  he  was  not  avoiding  its  most 
central  places.  He  had  worn  a  hat  of  soft  grey  velours  that 
I  had  not  seen  before,  and  a  new-looking,  well-cut  jacket  of 
grey  cheviot.  As  he  had  disappeared  in  navy-blue,  he  thus 
had  money  to  spend  on  clothes.  He  had  further  looked  in 
magnificent  health,  and  a  man  who  has  health,  money,  youth 
and  a  pretty  satin-slippered  foot  near  his  own  has  a  number 
of  very  good  things  indeed.  I  might  therefore  dismiss  the 
workmen's-tram  and  dock-gates  side  of  the  affair.  If  Der- 
went  Rose  was  not  having  a  good  time  he  ought  to  have  been. 

And  yet  at  the  same  time  I  was  uneasy.  I  will  not  put  on 
any  airs  about  the  reason  for  my  uneasiness.  White  satin 
slippers  in  hansoms  had  very  little  to  do  with  it,  and  tea- 
rooms that  had  once  been  something  else  even  less.  These 
are  ordinary  everyday  things,  and  there  must  be  something 
wrong  with  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  does  not  see  them  at 
every  turn — I  had  almost  added  something  wrong  with  the 
mind  of  a  man  who  magnifies  these  beyond  their  proper  im- 
portance. But  when  you  propose  to  find  a  friend  by  a 
process  of  reconstruction  of  the  past  phases  of  his  life,  you 
must  be  prepared  for  a  shock  or  two ;  and  what  I  did  now 
begin  extraordinarily  to  resent,  among  these  vulgar  and 
everyday  things,  was  Rose's  not  being  a  vulgar  everyday 
man. 

For  what  had  the  author  of  The  Hands  of  Esau  and  The 
Vicarage  of  Bray  to  do  with  all  this  ?  True,  he  had  been  in 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  69 

it,  whether  of  it  or  not,  as  we  can  none  of  us  shake  off  the 
trammels  of  the  flesh  until  we  do  so  once  for  all ;  but  the  only 
Derwent  Rose  with  whom  properly  I  had  any  concern  was 
the  man  who,  into  whatever  suspect  place  he  had  penetrated, 
had  kept  something  fair  and  secret  and  unsullied  all  the  time. 

Yet  here  I  was,  proposing  to  look  for  what  was  precious 
and  enduring  in  him,  yet  prepared  to  set  (as  it  were)  my 
trap  with  the  grossest  possible  bait.  I  was  going  to  catch 
the  best  of  him  by  means  of  the  worst,  and  was  deliberately 
and  cold-bloodedly  laying  my  plans  to  that  end. 

I  flushed  at  the  thought ;  and  then  I  found  myself  growing 
angry  with  him  also.  Suddenly  I  resented  the  fact  that  he 
was  alive  at  all.  Why,  instead  of  having  contracted  this 
nightmare  of  a  thing  that  he  had  contracted,  couldn't  he  have 
died?  Why  couldn't  he  have  got  himself  killed  in  the  war? 
We  respect  the  decency  of  the  dead ;  why  must  I  violate  his, 
who  had  chosen  this  extraordinary  alternative  to  death? 
Was  this  the  way  to  write  a  friend's  epitaph?  Must  im- 
mortelles of  this  common  and  saddening  mortality  be  laid 
on  his  unlocated  grave  ?  Why  not  write  him  off — treat  him 
as  dead — give  up  a  search  that  honoured  neither  him  nor  me 
— go  back  to  Julia  and  tell  her  that  the  thing  simply  couldn't 
be  done? 

It  seems  to  me,  knitting  my  brows  there  that  night  in  his 
room,  that  I  could  do  nothing  better  than  that. 

But  precisely  there  was  the  dickens  of  it.  He  was  not 
dead.  How  regard  a  man  as  dead  whom  you  have  seen  in 
the  flesh  not  an  hour  before?  Dead?  He  was  alive,  well- 
dressed,  driving  a  woman  somewhere  in  a  hansom,  and 
certainly  looking  as  if  he  ate  four  square  meals  a  day  and 
enjoyed  them.  Had  he  been  dead,  well  and  good;  but  since 
he  was  about  as  alive  as  a  man  could  be,  the  tombstone  vir- 
tues I  was  concocting  to  his  memory  looked  unpleasantly 
like  a  sentimental  shirking  of  the  whole  question.  They 
reminded  me  of  hypocrite  mourning,  with  a  drop  of  some- 
thing warm  with  sugar  to  take  the  edge  off  the  grief.  They 
looked  as  if  I  wanted  to  have  him  off  my  mind,  to  feel 
luxuriously  about  him,  to  be  able  to  say  to  myself,  "This 


70  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

friend  of  mine  was  a  good  and  exemplary  man" — and  then 
perhaps  at  any  moment  to  hear  his  step  behind  me,  that  of  a 
man  not  good  or  exemplary  in  this  sense  at  all.  I  seemed  to 
hear  him  softly  laughing  at  me :  "So  that's  the  yarn  you're 
going  to  put  about,  is  it :  that  I  was  all  barley-sugar  and  noble 
prose?  But  let  me  tell  you  that  Shakespeare  and  I  hit  on 
some  of  our  best  notions  with  a  mug  of  beer  in  our  hands ! 
Great  stuff,  beer;  nearly  as  good  as  music.  .  .  .  Don't  be  a 
humbug,  George." 

So  it  looked  as  if  I  was  for  seeking  him  only  in  the  politer 
places,  knowing  all  the  time  that  I  should  not  find  him  there ; 
and  I  reflected  a  little  bitterly  that  had  the  boot  been  on  the 
other  leg  he  would  have  known  where  to  look  for  me.  He 
would  have  walked  straight  into  the  first  place  where  easy- 
going people  take  the  softest  way  with  one  another,  give 
praise  for  praise,  and  by  and  by  get  knighthoods  for  it.  He 
would  have  looked  for  me  there.  And  he  would  have  had  an 
excellent  chance  of  finding  me. 

I  hope  I  have  not  wearied  you  with  these  quasi-heroics 
about  friendship.  They  were  dispelled  quickly  enough. 
Suddenly  there  happened  something  that  arrested  the  beat- 
ing of  my  heart. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  stairs  outside.  They  were 
accompanied  by  a  woman's  soft  laugh  and  a  man's  deeper 
muttering. 

My  skin  turned  crisp  with  fright.  I  am  afraid  I  lost  my 
head  as  completely  as  ever  I  lost  it  in  my  life.  Friendship 
or  no  friendship,  I  gave  him  the  benefit  of  not  one  single 
doubt.  If  he  was  coming  in  there  was  one  thing  to  do  and 
one  only — to  make  a  dash  and  get  away  out  of  it. 

Again  I  heard  the  laugh.  It  came  from  the  landing  im- 
mediately below.  A  step  or  two  higher,  and 

I  sprang  to  the  electric  light  and  switched  it  off. 

The  little  curtained  hat-and-coat  recess  stood  just  within 
the  door.  I  made  a  tiptoe  leap  for  it.  As  I  did  so  I  remem- 
bered with  thankfulness  one  of  the  recess's  peculiarities.  It 
abutted  so  close  up  to  the  door-frame  on  the  side  where  the 
lock  and  handle  were  that  Rose  had  had  the  switch  moved 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  71 

to  the  other  side.  The  opening  door  would  therefore  be 
between  him  and  the  switch.  That  would  be  my  moment. 
He  would  see  my  things  scattered  about  his  room  the  md- 
ment  he  turned  on  the  light,  but  that  could  be  explained  later. 
To  get  away  was  the  urgent  thing. 

Violently  agitated,  the  curtains  grasped  in  my  hand,  I 
stood  prepared  to  make  my  spring.  The  feet  had  stopped 
outside  the  door.  I  heard  the  striking  of  a  match.  I  waited 
for  the  touch  of  the  key  on  the  lock. 

Then,  "What,  up  again?"  I  heard  the  man's  voice  say.  .  .  . 

The  feet  passed  on  to  the  floor  above.  I  never  knew  who 
lived  there.  Rose's  bell  was  the  third  of  four,  counting  from 
the  bottom. 

IV 

I  have  not  told  you  the  foregoing  because  I  am  proud  of 
it.  At  the  best  I  had  behaved  childishly,  at  the  worst — but 
we  will  come  to  that  presently.  Had  it  really  been  he  I 
should  probably  not  have  had  the  remotest  chance  of  ever 
getting  past  him.  He  would  have  vaulted  a  handrail  in  the 
dark,  taken  a  flight  in  two  bounds,  and  would  have  had  his 
hand — that  hand  that  tore  books  in  two — on  my  neck.  Had 
he  recognised  me  he  would  have  wanted  to  know  what  the 
devil  I  was  doing  in  his  rooms.  Had  he  failed  to  recognise 
me  I  should  as  likely  as  not  have  gone  through  the  window. 
One  takes  risks  when  one  intrudes  on  the  loves  of  the  giants. 

At  the  same  time,  I  will  do  myself  the  justice  to  say  that 
physical  risks  were  not  my  first  consideration.  Vast  as  his 
strength  was,  it  was  the  part  of  him  I  least  feared.  What  I 
did  fear,  what  I  was  now  beginning  to  think  I  had  not  nearly 
sufficiently  allowed  for,  was  the  enormous  spiritual  and 
mental  range  of  the  man. 

Up  to  that  moment  in  his  life  when  he  had  become  so 
mysteriously  turned  round,  this  very  width  and  range  had 
resulted  in  a  state  of  balance,  as  the  tightrope-walker  is  bal- 
anced by  the  length  of  his  pole.  But  to  consider  either  of 
his  extremes  separately  was  to  have  a  cold  shiver.  Often  I 


72  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

had  thought,  "I'm  thankful  I  haven't  your  burden  of  per- 
sonality to  bear,  my  friend.  Much  better  to  be  the  millionth 
man  and  take  everything  on  trust.  The  way  to  be  happy  on 
this  earth  is  to  be  just  a  shell  of  useful  and  comfortable  and 
middling  habits.  Stick  to  the  second-hand  things  of  life  and 
let  the  new  ones  alone.  Any  kind  of  singularity  is  a  curse, 
and  your  life  is  one  dreadful  yawning  question.  You've  no 
business  to  have  the  first  dawn  in  your  eyes  and  the  last 
trump  in  your  ears  like  that.  The  world  has  no  need  of 
that  kind  of  man.  What  you  need  is  another  world  some- 
where else." 

And  he  had  marvellously  contrived  to  find  this  other 
world,  and  had  it  all,  all  to  himself. 

And  here  was  I  proposing  to  dig  him  out  of  it. 

Can  you  guess  now  what  it  was  that  I  had  begun  to  fear 
more  than  his  physical  strength?  It  was  the  whole  un- 
gauged  pressure  of  his  personality.  In  behaving  as  foolishly 
as  I  had  just  behaved  I  had  wished  to  spare  both  myself  and 
him  the  humiliation  of  an  intrusion  on  a  vulgar  amour. 
Now  it  occurred  to  be,  Why  a  "vulgar"  one  at  all?  Vul- 
garity is  for  us  smaller  people,  who  are  vulgar  enough  to 
think  that  anything  that  is  created  is  vulgar.  But  Derwent 
Rose  had  so  striven  that  every  dawn  was  the  first  dawn  of 
creation  for  him.  He  had  no  habits,  had  daily  sought  to  see 
the  world  as  if  it  had  never  been  seen  before.  Abysses  must 
open  for  him  every  time  he  passed  a  huddle  on  a  park  bench, 
protoplasmic  re-beginnings  stare  out  at  him  from  every 
chance  glance  of  a  street- walker's  eyes.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  far 
from  envying  him.  I  should  blench  to  have  a  mind  like 
that.  To  no  possession  that  I  have  do  I  cling  half  so  dearly 
as  I  do  to  my  narrowness  and  to  my  prejudice.  I  am  the 
millionth  man,  and  I  thank  God  on  my  knees  for  it.  One 
of  the  other  kind  has  been  my  friend.  .  .  . 

Suppose  then  that  one  day  I  should  surprise' him  in  some 
act,  stupid  and  meaningless  to  myself,  but  as  fraught  with 
tremendousness  for  him  as  was  that  first  command,  "Let 
there  be  Light!"  What  would  happen  then?  You  see  what 
I  am  driving  at.  Up  to  now  my  idea  had  oeen,  quite  simply, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  73 

to  find  him.  I  had  sought  him  much  as  I  might  have  sought 
a  truant  schoolboy,  who  would  consent  to  be  scolded  and 
brought  back  to  ordinary  life  again.  Small  practical  diffi- 
culties, mostly  in  connection  with  his  altered  appearance,  I 
had  anticipated,  but  these  I  had  intended  to  deal  with  as  they 
arose.  In  a  word,  I  had  assumed  his  willingness,  his  also, 
to  be  the  millionth  man. 

But  how  if  he  should  refuse  with  scorn?  What  was  the 
state  of  his  balance,  not  in  my  eyes,  but  in  his  ?  When  I  had 
last  seen  him  he  had  trembled  in  equilibrium,  and  to  his  fluc- 
tuations I  had  off-handedly  applied  the  terms  "worse"  and 
"better."  But  what  were  such  terms  to  him  ?  .  .  .  I  will  do 
as  I  did  before — try  to  set  it  out  in  parallel  columns.  Here 
was  a  missing  man,  a  man  of  unusual  range  and  powers,  to 
whose  state  of  poise  something  had  happened.  It  was  this 
man's  daily  endeavour  to  accept  nothing  at  second-hand, 
to  disregard  all  names,  labels,  customs,  tags,  appearances, 
verdicts,  records,  precedents.  His  life  was  one  long  probing 
into  the  essential  nature  of  things.  I  might,  therefore,  ex- 
pect to  find : 

The  Derwent  Rose  who  had     or  The  Derwent  Rose  who  might 
said,   when   I   had   offered  have     replied,      "Whisky? 

him  the  whisky,  "No,  no —  Well,  it  has  interesting  ef- 

blast  it,  no — water !"  fects  sometimes.  Somebody 

once  called  it  a  short  cut  to 
a  psychic  experience.  If  a 
psychic  experience  is  what 
you  are  after,  why  take  the 
roundabout  way?  Let's  try 
it." 

The  Derwent  Rose  who  had    or  The  Derwent  Rose  who  might 
torn  off  his  collar,  but  who  have  growled,  "Well,  what 

had  also  cried,  "Good  God,  is  there  extraordinary  about 

man,  I'm  not  bragging  of  that?  Perhaps  it  isn't  any- 

my   conquests — don't  think  thing  to  make  a  song  about, 

I'm  not  ashamed !"  but    don't    pretend    you've 

never  heard  of  such  a  thing 
before.  It  happens  every 
night,  you  know." 


74  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

The  Derwent  Rose  who  had    or  The  Derwent  Rose  who  might 
sat   in   a   hansom   with   a  have  said,  "Men  are  men 

white  satin  slipper  as  open-  and    women    are    women, 

ly    and    innocently    as     I  This  is  also  Piccadilly  Cir- 

might  have  sat  to  Julia  Oli-  cus.     Look    round.     Can't 

phant  for  my  portrait.  you  find  anything  better  to 

do  than  to  hunt  for  a  man 
who  is — not  at  home  to 
anybody  this  evening?" 

The  Derwent  Rose  who  loved    or  The  Derwent  Rose  who  cared 
beauty  and  hated  ugliness.  nothing   for   the   name   of 

anything,  destroyed  stale 
and  outworn  canons  of 
beauty  with  a  laugh,  and 
sought  a  fresher  loveliness 
in  a  world  where  nothing 
is  common  or  unclean. 

But  once  more  I  had  to  give  it  up.  That  baffling  down  of 
golden  beard  had  obliterated  every  physical  indication.  He 
might  be  in  a  church — for  an  assignation.  He  might  be  in  a 
drinking-hell — lost  in  images  of  beauty  and  sweetness  and 
power. 

And  what  kind  of  a  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus  is  London  in 
which  to  look  for  a  man  like  that  ?  The  whole  thing  became 
an  illimitable  phantasmagoria  of  virtue  and  vice,  nobility  and 
degradation,  expressed  in  terms  of  bricks  and  stones  and 
buildings  and  streets.  Sitting  brooding  among  his  black  oak 
furniture,  I  tried  to  envisage  even  that  merest  fragment  of 
it  all  that  was  being  enacted  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  at 
that  moment.  Whitfield's  Tabernacle — and  for  all  I  knew 
an  opium  den  within  a  biscuit's  toss  of  it ;  the  Synagogue — 
and  the  lady  upstairs.  I  pictured  the  tenements  behind  the 
Shaftesbury  with  their  iron  balconies  and  emergency-lad- 
ders ;  and  I  saw  young  lovers  in  their  stalls  at  the  Palace.  I 
saw  the  bright  Hampstead  buses,  and  the  masked  covertness 
of  the  flitting  taxis.  I  heard  the  slap  and  thump  of  beer- 
pumps,  children's  simple  prayers.  Images  floated  before  me 
of  the  gloom  of  cinema-interiors,  the  green-shaded  glow- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  75 

lamps  of  orchestras,  the  rippling  of  incandescent  advertise- 
ments, the  blackness  of  the  jam  factory  yard.  There  were 
pockets  with  money  in  them,  money  to  buy  all  the  world 
has  to  sell ;  and  there  were  pockets  empty  of  the  price  of  a 
cup  of  coffee  at  the  back-street  barrows.  There  were  hearts 
with  love  in  them,  love  as  boundless  as  heaven's  blue,  and 
there  were  hearts  from  which  love  had  passed,  hearts  as 
musty  as  the  graves  that  waited  for  them.  All  but  Infinity 
itself  was  to  be  found  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  where 
I  sat. 

And  flitting  uniquely  through  it  all  was  this  man  whose 
privacy  was  so  public,  whose  publicness  was  so  unutterably 
private.  He  might  be  met  at  any  step,  and  yet,  of  all  the 
millions  living,  there  was  not  one  he  could  call  contemporary. 
For  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  was  growing 
younger  instead  of  older.  He  of  all  men  alone  was  passing 
from  experience  to  innocence,  through  the  murk  of  his 
former  sins  to  the  perfection  of  his  own  maximum  and  the 
unimpaired  godhead  of  his  prime. 

"But  you  mightn't  see  him  again  for  another  twenty 
years !"  Julia  protested,  shaking  out  her  napkin  and  laughing 
for  the  sheer  bewilderment  of  it. 

I  had  chosen  the  small  restaurant  in  Jermyn  Street  because 
it  had  no  band  to  distract  us. 

"I  know  all  that,"  I  retorted.  "But  if  you  think  that  just 
sitting  there  loving  him  is  going  to  produce  him,  your  way 
may  take  even  longer  than  mine." 

"Pooh !"  she  said,  breaking  her  roll.  "You're  wasting 
your  time." 

"Don't  be  irritating,  Julia."  It  irritated  me  because  it  was 
so  true.  "It's  my  time  anyway." 

"No  it  isn't,  not  all  of  it.  What  about  my  sittings?" 
(There  had  not  yet  been  any,  by  the  way.)  "The  canvas  is 
ready  as  soon  as  you  are." 

"I'll  grow  a  beard,  and  then  you  won't  want  to  paint  me," 
I  replied. 

Her  eyes  had  sparkled  when  I  had  told  her  about  Berry's 


76  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

beard ;  I  had  thought  she  was  going  to  clap  her  hands.  Ex- 
cept for  Derry's  golden  one  (she  had  said)  she  had  never 
seen  a  beard  that  wasn't  nasty.  I  myself  (she  had  informed 
me)  should  look  a  perfect  horror  in  one,  and  unless  I  re- 
mained clean-shaven  she  refused  to  be  seen  about  with  me. 
...  So  our  customary  quarrel  blew  up.  We  wrangled 
about  one  trifle  and  another  half-way  through  dinner.  It 
probably  did  us  good,  for  underneath  we  were  both  badly  on 
edge.  Then  along  the  edge  of  the  table  she  slid  a  bent  little 
finger.  It  was  her  way  of  making  up.  The  finger  rested  in 
mine  for  a  moment. 

"Well,"  I  sighed,  "I  told  you  all  I  saw.  I'm  afraid  that 
beard  threw  me  quite  out  of  my  reckoning." 

She  mused.  "I  once  drew  him  with  his  beard,  from 
memory.  In  armour.  He  looked  just  like  King  Arthur 
come  to  life  again.  I've  got  it  yet.  .  .  .  But  let's  look  at 
the  thing  reasonably,  George.  I  admit  there's  something 
to  be  said  for  having  a  pied-a-terre  in  his  rooms.  He  might 
just  possibly  turn  up  there.  It  might  also  be — hm  ! — awk- 
ward if  he  did.  .  .  .  But  the  rest,  all  this  hunting  for  him, 
that's  a  wash-out.  You  know  it  is." 

I  was  silent.  Then  again  I  saw  in  her  eyes  what  I  had 
seen  before — the  beginning  of  a  soft  deep  shining,  as  if  some 
diver's  lamp  moved  beneath  the  waters  at  night. 

"No,  I  prefer  my  way,"  she  said,  suddenly  sitting  straight 
up. 

"Doing  nothing  at  all  ?" 

"Fiddlesticks !  I'm  supposed  to  sit  and  listen  respectfully 
when  you  talk,  but  you  never  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say. 
I  told  you  what  my  way  was.  I'll  tell  you  again.  I  had  tea 
at  Daphne  Bassett's  flat  this  afternoon." 

"I  hope  you  found  Puppetty  well,"  I  remarked. 

The  kindling  eyes  were  steadily  on  mine. 

"Puppetty,"  she  said  slowly,  "is  in  the  greatest  favour. 
Puppetty  has  wing-portions  for  dinner  and  bovril  to  go  to 
bed  with.  Puppetty's  to  have  a  new  quilt  for  being  a  good 
little  doggies  and  protecting  his  mummie — 

"What  on  earth "  I  began. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  77 

Then  I  sat  up  as  suddenly  as  if  I  had  been  galvanised. 

"Julia!    You  don't  mean ?" 

She  nodded,  darkling  devils  of  mischief  under  that  cool 
smooth  brow. 

"What,  that  he's  still  looking  for  her?" 

"He's  found  her.    He  spoke  to  her  a  couple  of  days  ago." 

"And  she  recognised  him  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"Didn't  she  recognise  him?" 

"Didn't  know  him  from  Adam." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  it  was  he?" 

I  cannot  convey  the  lightness  of  her  disdain.  "How  do 
I  know ! " 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair.  To  think  that  I  had  not  thought 
of  this,  the  oldest  of  all  stratagems!  Guettez  la  femme! 
Runaways  are  caught  by  it  every  day,  and  always  will  be. 
They  are  released  from  custody  and  placed  under  observa- 
tion so  that  they  may  walk  straight  into  the  trap.  That  is 
why  the  trick  is  old — it  never  fails.  And  I  had  not  thought 
of  it! 

She  wore  her  triumph  with  such  present  moderation  that 
I  knew  I  had  not  heard  the  last  of  it. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "she  told  me  all  about  it.  It  was 
on  Monday  evening,  about  seven  o'clock,  and  she  was  coming 
up  the  little  street  by  St.  James's  Church,  where  the  Post 
Office  is.  She  fancied  she'd  noticed  a  man  following  her, 
a  very  big  handsome  man  with  a  golden  beard." 

"Is  that  her  description  of  him  ?"  I  interrupted. 

"Yes.  That's  why  I  wasn't  much  surprised  when  you 
told  me  about  his  beard.  Then  outside  the  Post  Office  the 
outrage  happened.  He  spoke  to  her.  Spoke  to  her,  George. 
Try  to  realise  it." 

"Well,  if  she'd  no  idea  who  he  was  it  wasn't  a  pleasant 
thing  to  have  happen." 

She  gave  a  so-ft  laugh.  "He's  very  good-looking,"  she 
said  brazenly. 

"Julia,  if  you  were  naturally  a  catty  sort  of  woman " 

"Don't  interrupt,  George.     I  am  artificially  then.    If  you 


78  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

don't  want  to  hear  go  out  and  look  for  hansoms.  And  what- 
ever else  you're  sententious  about  don't  be  sententious  about 
women.  Now  I've  forgotten  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"You  said  he  spoke  to  her  outside  the  Post  Office." 

"Behave  yourself  then.  He  did  speak  to  her,  and  she  set 
Puppetty  at  him." 

"What!"  I  cried. 

"Quite  so,  dear  George.  As  you  say.  Fearfully  pleased 
and  excited  really.  Quite  a  romance.  And  of  course  she'd 
have  given  anything  not  to  set  Puppetty  at  him." 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  goodness  did  she?" 

Julia  gave  an  exhausted  sigh.  "If  ever  you  marry,  George, 
heaven  help  Lady  Coverham !  .  .  .  Why  did  she  ?  Because 
she  had  to.  She's  that  sort.  They've  got  to  do  certain 
things  because  that  sort  does,  but  they  do  so  wish  they 
needn't!  Virtue's  a  funny  thing.  If  you  don't  want  that 
ice  may  I  have  it?" 

"But  look  here,"  I  said  presently.  "If  he'd  said  straight 
out,  as  any  man  in  his  position  would  have  done,  'I  say,  I 
know  this  is  a  bit  unusual,  but  my  name's  Derwent  Rose,  and 
there's  something  I  want  to  explain' — and  so  on — you  see 
what  I  mean.  Then  she'd  have  known  who  he  was." 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  responsible  for  what  he  didn't 
say." 

"What  exactly  did  he  say  ?" 

She  gave  a  shrug.  "What  do  men  say?  They  don't  stop 
me  outside  post  offices.  You  never  did;  if  all  this  hadn't 
happened  I  don't  suppose  I  should  ever  have  known  you 
one  scrap  better.  I  dare  say  he  was  a  bit  rattled  too.  Any- 
way she  didn't  stop  to  think.  She  just  set  the  dog  at  him, 
legged  it,  and  she's  as  pleased  as  Punch  still." 

"You're  quite  sure  she  didn't  recognise  him?" 

"Oh,  quite.  She'd  tell  me  in  a  minute.  She'd  love  to  be 
able  to  say  she'd  had  Derwent  Rose  at  her  feet." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  sighed.  "Did  you  ask  her  what  aged  man 
this — marauder — looked  ?" 

"What  do  you  think?  Of  course  I  did.  Doesn't  every- 
thing turn  on  that?  But  she  could  only  tell  me,  'Oh,  about 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  79 

thirty-three  or  four — thirty-five  perhaps.'  The  very  thing 
we  want  to  know  .  .  .  but  she  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  be 
virtuous.  .  .  ." 

Her  brow  was  no  longer  smooth.  Her  voice  rose  a  little 
and  then  dropped  again. 

"You  see  how  much  turns  on  which  it  is — thirty-five  or 
thirty-three.  You  say  he  was  struggling  with  himself  that 
night,  sweating  with  funk,  wanting  to  hang  on.  And  yet 
the  moment  you  turned  your  back  he  bolted,  and  he's  riding 
about  with  ladies  in  hansoms." 

"Come,  my  dear !"  I  protested.  "There's  nothing  in  that ! 
All  men  drive  about  with  women.  For  that  matter  I  drove 
you  part  of  the  way  here." 

But  she  cut  me  impatiently  short. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  at  all!  That's  nothing  to  me! 
I  don't  care  who  he  takes  in  hansoms ;  I've  nothing  to  gain 
and  nothing  to  lose.  I  want  him  to  have  just  whatever  he 
wants.  But  I  told  you  he  knew  nothing  about  women. 
He's  never  been  in  love  in  his  life.  Oh,  I'm  explaining  badly, 
but  what  I  mean  is  that  if  you're  going  to  find  him  by 
going  through  London  with  a  dustman's  besom  and  scraper, 
that's  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  isn't  happy.  That's  what 
hurts  me.  He  was  miserable  at  thirty-five  before — miserable 
and  ashamed.  But  the  moment  he's  thirty-three  again " 

I  watched  the  long  white  fingers  that  tapped  softly  for  a 
minute  on  the  table  before  she  resumed. 

"Then  he's  all  right,"  she  said  in  a  low  and  moved  voice. 
"He  was  writing  the  Vicarage  then.  I  saw — oh,  quite  lots  of 
him.  He  used  to  'blow  in/  as  he  called  it,  with  a  'Hallo, 
Julia !  I'm  having  rather  a  devil  of  a  good  time  these  days ; 
writing  a  book  that  will  make  some  of  'em  sit  up  and  take 
notice ;  I've  done  a  quarter  of  it  in  three  weeks ;  how's  that 
for  a  little  gentle  occupation  ?'  Yes,  I  saw  quite  a  lot  of  him 
at  thirty-three.  I  had  a  studio  near  Cremorne  Road.  It 
wasn't  really  a  studio,  but  a  sort  of  gutted  top  floor,  big 
enough  to  have  given  a  dance  in,  and  my  bed  was  behind  a 
curtain  that  was  drawn  right  across  one  end.  I  used  to  give 
him  tea  there — Patum  Paperium  sandwiches  he  liked — and 


8o  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

he  was  sweet.  Once  I'd  an  illustration  to  do  for  some  stupid 
story  or  other,  about  a  sort  of  Sandow-and-Hackenschmidt 
all  rolled  into  one,  and  do  you  know  what  he  did?  He 
looked  at  my  drawing,  took  it  to  the  window,  and  then 
laughed.  'I  say,  Julia,  this  will  never  do  !'  he  said.  'When  a 
man  lifts  a  heavy  thing  like  that  he  does  it  from  the  earth, 
you  understand — you  do  everything  that's  worth  doing  from 
the  earth.  So  you've  got  to  see  his  feet  are  right.  Anybody 
likely  to  come  in  here  ?  No  ?  Right ;  I  don't  mind  you.  Got 
anything  heavy  here  ?  You  get  your  paper  and  pencil.'  And 
he  stripped  to  the  belt  and  picked  up  my  sewing-machine 
and  posed  for  me.  He  did.  .  .  ." 


V 

I  seemed  to  see  the  scene  in  bright  illumination,  him  in  that 
upper  room  with  the  curtains  drawn  across  one  end,  his 
jacket  and  shirt  tossed  on  to  a  chair,  his  great  torso  stripped 
to  the  buff,  the  sewing-machine  held  aloft.  She  would  be 
at  her  board  or  easel,  sketching — pretending  to  sketch — I 
don't  know  what.  He  had  merely  said,  "Anybody  likely  to 
come  in?  No?  Right!  I  don't  mind  you!" 

It  was  true.  He  hadn't  minded  her.  Otherwise  he  would 
never  have  displayed  himself  so  gloriously  before  her  eyes. 

"Did  that  illustration  ever  appear?"  I  asked  without 
looking  at  her. 

I  knew  without  looking  that  she  smiled  as  she  shook  her 
head. 

"Not  that  one.  You  know  it  didn't.  The  first  one  was 
good  enough  for  them." 

And  she  still  had  the  King  Arthur  sketch  too. 

"And  that  was  when  he  was  thirty-three?" 

Now  that  she  was  off  there  was  no  stopping  her,  even  had 
I  wished  it. 

"Yes.  Did  you  know — will  you  believe — that  he  wrote 
his  Vicarage  in  just  over  three  months  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  81 

"He  was  a  furious  worker." 

"That's  just  where  you're  wrong,  George,"  she  said 
eagerly.  "At  that  time  at  any  rate.  He  was  as  cool  as  this 
ice.  He  just  digested  those  gigantic  masses  of  information, 
and  then,  except  for  the  trouble  of  writing  it  down,  he  never 
turned  a  hair.  I'll  tell  you  the  things  that  did  make  him 
furious ;  those  were  his  rottenest  short  stories,  the  things 
he  used  to  have  to  do  to  pay  his  rent.  He  always  knew  they 
were  the  wrong  sort  of  rottenness.  Any  kind  of  rottenness 
won't  do  for  the  public.  You've  got  to  be  rotten  in  quite  a 
specialised  way." 

"Thank  you." 

"But  the  bigger  a  thing  was  the  easier  he  always  found  it. 
He  used  to  say  that  if  a  thing  was  hard  work  there  was 
something  wrong  somewhere.  Why,  he'd  take  whole  days 
off  when  he  was  at  his  very  busiest.  He  came  into  my  place 
one  morning — the  same  place,  Cremorne  Road — before 
half-past  eight.  I  was  just  finishing  breakfast;  I  hadn't 
done  my  hair;  if  you  must  know,  I  was  rather  a  sloven  at 
that  time.  He  was  in  his  breeches  and  cap  and  a  soft  collar. 
'Down  tools,  Julia,'  he  said ;  'we're  off  into  the  country  for 
the  day.'  'But,  Derry,  your  book!'  I  said,  rather  aghast 
(he'd  told  me  a  day  or  two  before  that  the  Vicarage  was  a 
race  against  time  or  else  bankruptcy  for  him  in  the  autumn). 
'Oh,  that's  all  right;  it's  finished  as  far  as  I'm  concerned; 
the  pen  '11  do  the  rest;  come  along  just. as  you' are.'  So  I 
put  my  hair  up,  and  we  went  to  Chalfont,  and  got  horribly 
midge-bitten,  and  there  was  an  old  man  playing  the  harp 
outside  a  little  public-house  where  we  had  tea,  and  I  remem- 
ber Derry  jumped  over  a  five-barred  gate  with  his  stick  in  his 
hand  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  .  .  ." 

She  remembered  every  detail.  I  don't  think  she  had  ever 
once  seen  him  but  she  remembered  what  he  had  on,  how  he 
had  looked,  what  he  had  talked  about.  These  were  the  still 
depths  I  spoke  of,  of  which  the  rest  was  no  more  than  the 
salt  spray  surface.  I  might  be  hanging  about  Cambridge 
Circus  on  the  off-chance  of  his  coming  for  a  paper  or  a  book 


82  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

or  something ;  but  I  believe  that  in  her  heart  something  was 
already  rekindling,  and  that  she  was  even  then  waiting  to  re- 
ceive him  again  in  that  upper  room  off  Cremorne  Road. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "this  is  all  very  well,  but  it  isn't 
getting  us  much  forrarder.  Of  course  he  may  be  thirty-five 
still.  In  that  case  I  suppose  you'll  carry  on  as  you  are 
doing.  But  let's  suppose  for  a  moment  he's  back  at  thirty- 
three.  I'm  afraid  that'll  mean  a  good  deal  of  work  for  you, 
George.  You've  got  to  start  on  an  entirely  new  set  of 
places.  Let  me  see,  what  year  would  that  be?  Yes,  1908. 
Where  was  he  mostly  in  1908?" 

"In  your  studio  apparently." 

"Oh,  he  was  never  there  very  much  really.  I  dare  say  he 
only  came  at  all  because  it  was  near  and  he'd  drawn  a  blank 
somewhere  else;  he  lived  in  Paulton's  Square,  you  know. 
No,  you'd  have  to  look  for  him  in  the  British  Museum  Read- 
ing Room,  or  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  wher- 
ever the  Blue  Books  are  kept,  or  some  other  place  where 
he'd  be  digging  out  all  that  terrible  Vicarage  stuff.  Or  if  it 
happened  to  be  a  Thursday  night  you  might  try  the  Eyre 
Arms ;  he  used  to  go  up  there  to  the  Belsize  Boxing  Club. 
Cheer  up,  George.  I'm  only  showing  you  what  you've  let 
yourself  in  for." 

"Well,  it's  no  good  looking  for  him  in  the  fourth  dimen- 
sion. He's  got  to  be  in  some  sort  of  a  place.  And  I  admit 
that  I  was  a  fool,  and  that  you  found  him  simply  by  sitting 
in  Mrs  Bassett's  pocket." 

"I  didn't  do  that  at  all,"  she  remarked  composedly. 

"Then  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  understood  you." 

"Then  let  me  tell  you.  I  didn't  sit  in  Daphne  Bassett's 
pocket.  I  sat  in  Daphne  Wade's." 

I  stared  at  her.  Was  she  suggesting  that  while  she  her- 
self had  loved  him  since  childhood,  he  for  his  part  had  loved 
Daphne  Wade? 

"Surely  you're  wrong  there.  If  there  was  ever  anything 
between  her  and  him  I'm  no  judge  of  men." 

"There  may  not  have  'been  anything.'  But  there  was 
everything  for  all  that,"  she  replied. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  83 

"That's  merely  enigmatic.  Never  mind  'everything.' 
Tell  me  what  thing." 

"All  his  dreams  and  ideals  when  he  was  a  boy,"  she 
answered  promptly.  "Isn't  that  everything  in  a  man  like 
him — the  everything  he's  on  his  way  back  to  ?" 

"But  he  never  loved  her  in  the  least,  nor  she  him,  as  far 
as  I'm  aware." 

"That  I  shall  never  forgive  her.  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  yet 
why  he  never  knew  anything  about  real  women?  It  was 
simply  because  he  was  too  wrapped  up  in  his  dreams.  He 
was  so  full  of  them  that  he  couldn't  see  anything  truly  for 
them.  And  now  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  dispel  one  of  your 
most  cherished  illusions,  George.  Do  you  know  why  his 
dreams  all  settled  on  Daphne  Wade?  Oh,  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  loving  her !  ...  It  was  simply  because  she  had 
that  coloured  hair.  It  was  rather  like  an  aureole  when  she 
was  a  child.  And  her  eyes  were  blue.  In  fact  she'd  all  the 
conventional  angelic  appliances  except  the  wings,  and  he 
supplied  those.  She'd  nothing  whatever  else — little  fool." 

I  frowned.  Certainly  she  was  entitled  to  speak  of  those 
early  days  towards  which  his  face  was  once  more  set,  since 
she  had  known  him  then,  and  I  had  not. 

"Have  some  more  coffee,"  I  said.  "I  want  to  think  this 
over." 

But  she  only  laughed  softly. 

"Oh,  you  needn't.  You'll  save  yourself  a  lot  of  trouble 
by  simply  taking  my  word  for  it.  In  any  case  it's  getting 
on  for  thirty  years  ago.  Oh,  don't  I  just  remember!  .  .  . 
I  was  nine  and  he  was  fourteen;  I  was  ten  and  he  was 
fifteen ;  I  was  eleven  and  he  was  sixteen.  She's  just  a  year 
older  than  I  am.  Our  pew  was  half-way  down  the  church, 
but  she  sat  up  one  of  the  aisles,  right  under  a  stained-glass 
window  there  was.  It  used  to  make  that  light  on  her  hair. 
My  hair  was  the  wrong  colour — I  knew  it  then — just  a  dark 
mop — but  anyway  it  was  full  of  life.  It  would  still  have 
been  dark,  of  course,  even  if  I'd  sat  under  the  window  in- 
stead of  her,  but  I've  sometimes  thought  it  might  have  made 
a  difference.  Then  there  was  all  the  rest;  Dicksee's  'Har- 


84  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

mony'  sort  of  effect;  all  so  cool  and  dim  and  saintly;  and  the 
organ  and  the  Psalms.  That's  what  filled  his  head,  and  I 
honestly  believe  that  unless  women  are  just  animals  to  him 
he  sees  them  like  that  still — just  about  as  much  flesh  and 
blood  as  that  window  was.  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  have 
that  hair  and  those  eyes  and  to  sit  in  the  vicarage  pew. 
Things  are  made  very  simple  for  some  women." 

A  long  silence  fell  between  us.  Evidently  she  was  back 
in  that  church,  an  adoring  wrong-coloured-haired  girl  of 
eleven,  shifting  in  her  seat  to  see,  past  intervening  bonnets 
and  bald  heads,  Derry's  browny-gold  crown,  while  he 
watched  Daffy  Wade  and  the  window. 

"But,"  I  said  at  last,  "aren't  you  rather  anticipating?  I 
thought  we'd  settled  he  was  thirty-five  or  thirty-three. 
That's  making  him  sixteen  already." 

She  rose  abruptly. 

"George,  do  you  realise  that  we're  the  last  people  here  and 
that  they've  turned  half  the  lights  out?"  Then,  drawing 
forward  her  furs  from  the  back  of  her  chair,  "It  isn't  making 
him  anything  of  the  sort.  You're  more  than  thirty-five  ;  but 
you  sometimes  remember  what  you  were  at  sixteen,  don't 
you  ?  .  .  .  Come  and  put  me  into  my  Tube  and  off  you  go  to 
bed.  Who  knows? — he  might  'blow  in'  to  Cambridge 
Circus " 

"You  sometimes  remember  what  you  were  at  sixteen!" 
I  wondered,  as  I  walked  slowly  up  Shaftesbury  Avenue 
that  night,  whether  she  realised  what  she  had  said.  I  hoped 
not.  I  prayed  not ;  because  her  words  seemed  to  me  to  mur- 
der her  own  cherished  hope — that  he  was  safely  past  that 
turbulent  phase  and  back  at  thirty-three  again. 

For  that  poignancy  of  remembrance,  I  am  glad  to  think,  is 
more  frequently  a  man's  than  a  woman's.  It  is  the  man 
who,  slipping  away,  away  from  his  youth  and  innocence, 
down,  down,  slip  after  slip  into  the  mire  of  life,  lifts  his  red 
and  weeping  eyes  to  what  he  used  to  be.  And  when  does 
that  vision  shine  most  agonisingly  fair?  Not  in  the  hours 
of  his  philosophy,  when  nothing  unduly  elates  him  and 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  85 

nothing  too  much  casts  him  down,  but  when  he  is  in  the 
slough  as  deep  as  he  can  get.  Oh,  I  know  it,  for  I  have 
sinned  myself,  have  myself  wept,  for  that  impossible  heart- 
break— to  be  as  I  once  was.  And  if  Julia  was  right,  and  he 
was  not  seeking  Mrs  Bassett  at  all,  nor  even  Daphne  Wade, 
but  merely  his  remembered  self  at  sixteen,  then  he  was  not 
thirty-three  at  all.  He  had  not  yet  passed  beyond  that 
phase  he  had  dreaded  to  re-live.  He  was  still  in  the  mud, 
to  have  had  that  tear-blurred  vision;  still  a  sinful  man  of 
thirty-five  who  remembered  the  morning  star. 

Well,  Julia  must  not  know  that.  This  dark  corollary  was 
for  my  shouldering,  not  hers.  And  as  I  resolved  to  keep  it 
from  her  I  wondered  at  the  marvel  her  own  inner  life  had 
been. 

For  nearly  thirty  years  it  had  consisted  of  Derwent  Rose 
and  of  nothing  whatever  else!  None  would  have  guessed 
it,  none  but  I  knew  it,  nothing  but  Derry's  unprecedented 
adventure  would  have  dragged  it  from  her.  She  was  a  busy 
painter,  of  but  moderate  talent,  and  with  her  living  to  earn. 
She  could  purr  when  she  was  pleased,  but  had  claws  ready 
to  scratch  with  as  well.  And,  deep  and  unguessed  behind  it 
all,  lay  the  story  of  those  Sussex  fields  and  lanes,  of  that 
dreaming  and  ecstatic  and  unheeding  boy,  of  that  same  boy, 
grown-up  and  still  unheeding,  who  had  stalked  in  and  out 
of  her  studio,  borne  her  off  to  Chalfont,  held  aloft  her  sew- 
ing-machine. It  seemed  to  me  that  her  case  was  little  less 
extraordinary  than  his.  I  saw  her  as  a  woman  who  had 
never  grown.  She  was  as  she  had  always  been,  her  life 
stultified  with  beauty,  a  poised  and  arrested  development  of 
love. 

And,  unless  I  was  mistaken,  she  had  hardly  sought  to 
conceal  her  joy  that,  as  it  had  been,  so  it  was  to  be  again. 

For  he  was  journeying  back  to  a  place  that  in  this  sense 
she  had  never  left ;  and  so  he  was  journeying  back  to  her. 
What  though  he  had  never  loved  her  ?  At  any  rate  she  was 
now  rid  of  her  last  living  rival.  That  had  been  put  to  the 
test  when  Daphne  Bassett  had  failed  to  recognise  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  her  outside  the  Post  Office  in  St.  James's. 


86  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

She  would  recognise  him  less  and  less  as  time  went  on.  As 
for  him,  he  would  merely  go  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
heart  of  his  inconceivable  solitude,  and  there,  in  the  last  and 
the  centre  of  it,  he  would  find  Julia  Oliphant  waiting  for 
him — waiting  for  her  always  loved  and  lordly  boy  of  sixteen. 

But  how  much  must  happen  before  then !  For  the  first 
time  I  envisaged  it  in  its  heartbreaking  beauty.  Lovely,  ap- 
parently inevitable  the  close  .  .  .  but  the  way  there  ?  What, 
steeling  her  heart,  must  she  see  before  that  meeting? 

She  must  see  a  man  whose  last  kiss  was  his  first  one,  who 
unlived  a  thousand  adventures  to  become  virgin  in  the  end. 
She  must  see  a  man  living  so  unutterably  long  that  he  lived 
to  write  his  first  poem  again.  She  would  see  a  man  who 
had  fought  through  a  war  of  flame  and  poison  puckering  his 
smooth  brows  over  his  first  percussion-cap  pistol.  She 
would  see  the  dust  of  his  athletic  laurels  stir,  reassemble, 
bloom  anew.  She  would  see  the  miracle  of  youth  synthe- 
sised,  the  grail  of  his  purity  mystically  reappear.  Not  even 
Joshua  saw  what  those  liquid  and  already  tired  brown  eyes 
of  hers  must  see — the  sun  of  a  man's  life  pause  at  noon, 
swing  contrary  to  its  orbit,  and  move  back  to  set  where  it 
rose. 

And  all  at  once  there  came  over  me  a  whelming  of  passion- 
ate emotion  for  this  woman  so  singled  out.  It  was  the  emo- 
tion one  feels  over  an  infant  whose  eyes  open  for  the  first 
time  on  the  world — compassion  and  ache  and  hapless  tender- 
ness and  hope  for  the  best.  Would  she  be  able  to  bear  her 
destiny?  Would  she,  had  such  a  thing  been  possible,  have 
elected  never  to  have  been  born  rather  than  bear  it  ?  Could 
I  help  her?  If  things  should  unfold  as  they  were  well  in 
motion  to  unfold,  could  any  power  on  earth  help  her  ? 

I  began  to  suspect  that,  unless  she  renounced  him  once 
for  all,  and  that  quickly,  no  power  on  earth  would  be  able  to 
help  her. 

I  don't  know  why  I  did  not  pack  up  my  things  and  go  back 
to  Haslemere.  I  no  longer  pretended  to  be  looking  for 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  87 

Derwent  Rose  in  London,  and  I  had  not  given  one  single 
sitting  for  my  portrait.  Yet,  though  I  could  not  help  Julia, 
I  felt  myself  unable  to  leave  her.  If  I  did  not  see  her  for 
an  evening  I  was  disturbed,  lost  what  to  do  with  myself. 
Several  of  these  evenings  came,  and  still  I  lingered  on. 

Then,  I  think  on  the  fourth  evening  after  I  had  given  Julia 
dinner  in  Jermyn  Street,  the  history  of  Derwent  Rose  moved 
forward — or  backward — once  more. 

I  had  thought  of  looking  up  Madge  Aird  that  evening, 
but  at  the  last  moment  had  changed  my  mind.  I  did  not 
feel  up  to  Madge's  liveliness.  So  I  hung  round  that  now 
so-drearily-familiar  neighbourhood  instead — the  neighbour- 
hood between  Leicester  Square  Tube  Station  and  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  I  walked  till  I  was  tired,  and  then,  more  for 
the  sake  of  sitting  down  than  for  any  other  reason,  I  entered 
a  picture-house  on  the  west  side  of  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  I 
did  not  choose  that  one  in  particular.  It  was  just  like  any 
other  picture-house  except  that  it  had  a  small  organ  built 
into  the  wall  high  up  in  one  corner.  This  organ  was  ceasing 
to  play  as  I  entered.  The  principal  drama  of  the  programme 
was  just  over. 

As  it  chanced,  I  had  arrived  just  in  time  for  one  of  those 
rather  curious  effects  that  are  obtained  when  the  film  is  put 
through  the  machine  extremely  slowly.  You  know  the  kind 
I  mean.  A  racehorse  in  full  career  picks  up  and  puts  down 
his  legs  as  if  they  were  fronds  of  seaweed  moving  lazily  in 
water ;  a  golf-ball  trickles  uncannily  across  the  green,  rising 
and  falling  idly  over  each  minute  obstacle,  and  then  floats 
gently  down  into  the  hole.  In  spite  of  my  languor  I  found 
myself  interested  in  these  analyses  of  motion.  It  is  curious 
to  see  instantaneousness  taking  its  time  over  a  thing  like 
that. 

Then  that  series  also  finished,  and  I  felt  in  my  pocket  for 
my  cigarette  case.  As  I  drew  out  a  cigarette  and  struck  a 
match  somebody  behind  me  leaned  forward  and  touched  me 
lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  say,  isn't  your  name  Coverham?"  a  man's  voice  said. 


88  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

The  match  was  still  in  my  fingers.  I  looked  over  my 
shoulder  in  the  light  of  it.  Then  I  dropped  the  match. 

I  had  not  found  him.  He  had  found  me.  It  was  Der- 
went  Rose. 


PART  III 

THE  STRAPHANGER 


He  was  not  far  from  the  end  of  the  row,  and  in  reaching 
him  I  had  not  to  disturb  more  than  three  or  four  people. 
Though  it  is  inadequate,  I  have  decided  that  the  single  word 
that  best  expresses  the  way  in  which  he  spoke  is  the  word 
"careful."  He  spoke  slowly,  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  with 
extreme  care. 

"Interesting  idea  that  last,  isn't  it?  Restful.  Things  go 
at  such  a  deuce  of  a  rate  nowadays  that  it's  a  comfort  to  see 
anything  slow.  Well,  how  are  you,  George?  I  haven't 
seen  you  for — some  little  time." 

It  was  precisely  three  weeks  since  he  had  last  seen  me,  and 
I  noted  that  slight,  that  very  slight  hesitation  before  his  last 
words. 

"Do  you  often  come  here?  I — I  rather  keep  away  from 
these  places  myself ;  they  put  everything  through  much  too 
quickly;  but  I  rather  like  this  one  because  of  the  organ. 
Of  course  they  only  play  'effects' — 'Ora  Pro  Nobis'  and  the 
'Wedding  March' — but  there's  something  about  an  organ. 
...  I  say,  George,"  he  said  a  little  uncomfortably,  "I've  a 
sort  of  feeling  I  owe  you  an  apology." 

"Well,  this  is  hardly  the  place  for  it.  We  can't  talk  here. 
If  you've  seen  all  you  want  suppose  we  go  outside?" 

The  thing  I  wanted  first  of  all  was  to  have  a  good  look  at 
him.  Already  I  could  see  that  he  no  longer  had  a  beard. 
But  my  surreptitious  glance  at  him  as  we  passed  out  into 
the  lighted  vestibule  and  past  the  box-office  told  me  little. 
On  the  pavement  of  Shaftesbury  Avenue  he  slipped  his  arm 
into  mine. 

"Yes,  I  fancy  I  talked  an  awful  lot  of  rubbish  that  night — 
bit  of  an  ass  of  myself — you  remember " 

I  did  not  reply.     The  important  thing  was,  not  whether  I 


92  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

remembered,  but  whether  his  memory  was  all  that  it  should 
have  been,  for  he  was  forgetting  something  even  as  he  spoke. 
He  remembered  that  other  night,  he  had  remembered  my 
name ;  but  if  he  remembered  that  he  had  rooms  and  belong- 
ings in  Cambridge  Circus  he  was  very  deliberately  turning 
down  Shaftesbury  Avenue  instead  of  up  it.  But  I  went 
where  he  led  me.  I  was  resolved,  however,  that  the  moment 
his  arm  left  mine,  mine  should  go  into  his.  I  was  not  going 
to  let  him  disappear  again. 

The  typical  Soho  mixture  thronged  the  pavements:  He- 
brew physiognomies,  Italian,  Greek;  dark  chins,  bold  eyes, 
bold  noses ;  rings  and  scarfpins,  fancy  socks,  the  double- 
,  heeled  silk  stockings  of  women.  As  I  could  not  very  well 
scrutinise  his  face  at  that  short  range  I  did  the  next  best 
thing;  I  watched  the  faces  that  advanced  towards  us.  As 
if  he  had  been  a  pretty  woman,  so  heads  turned  as  he  passed. 
They  turned  as  they  turn  for  Billy  Wells.  It  was  not  so 
much  his  size  and  proportions  as  his  whole  personal  aura. 
Pie  stood  out  among  all  that  flashy  cosmopolitanism  as  if  a 
special  and  inherent  light  attended  him. 

"Which  way  are  we  going?  Where  do  you  live?"  I  sud- 
denly asked  him.  It  was  not  the  question  I  was  burning  to 
ask  him.  That  question  was,  "When  do  you  live?"  I  felt 
the  slight  movement  of  the  muscles  under  his  sleeve,  but  he 
answered  steadily  enough — carefully  enough. 

"Oh,  I've  been  rather  lucky  about  that,"  he  said.  "I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  wine-bar  of  an  hotel  in  Gloucester  Road 
one  night,  and  I  got  talking  to  a  fellow.  I  fancied  I'd  come 
across  him  somewhere  in  France — as  a  matter  of  fact  I  had, 
though  he  didn't  remember  me.  Anyway,  we'd  started  talk- 
ing, and  we  went  on.  Rather  an  amusing  crowd  there, 
George.  If  I  were  asked  to  put  in  one  word  the  basic  do- 
mestic factor  of  their  lives,  do  you  know  what  it  would  be  ? 
A  pint  of  methylated  spirits.  They  don't  pay  half  a  crown 
for  it  at  the  chemist's;  they  pay  one-and-twopence  at  the 
oilshop.  To  boil  their  kettles,  of  course.  They  all  fought, 
they're  all  gentlemen,  and  they're  all  doing  damn-all  to  make 
a  living.  So  they  take  garrets  and  rooms  over  garages,  and 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  93 

cook  their  breakfasts  with  methylated  spirits.  This  fellow 
was  called  Trenchard.  Got  all  messed  up  at  the  Brick 
Stacks,  La  Bassee  way.  He  had  to  go  out  of  town  for  a 
month,  and  said  I  could  have  his  place  for  the  bare  rent, 
twenty-five  bob  a  week,  and  the  use  of  his  furniture  for 
nothing.  So  that's  where  I  am.  This  way " 

We  turned  into  Leicester  Square  Tube  Station. 

In  the  train  I  sat  opposite  to  him;  and,  now  that  he  had 
taken  his  beard  off,  I  couldn't  see  that  he  had  changed  very 
remarkably  in  outward  appearance  after  all.  Nevertheless 
I  distrusted  my  own  impression.  I  knew  that  I  was  full 
of  pre-conceptions  about  him,  knew  too  much  of  his  aston- 
ishing case  to  observe  impartially  and  reliably.  There  are 
some  things — some  scents  for  example — that  you  have  to 
make  up  your  mind  immediately  about  or  else  to  remain  in 
indecision.  The  longer  you  delay  the  less  sure  you  become. 
So  I  found  it  with  his  face  in  the  electric-lighted  Tube. 
It  was,  of  course,  astoundingly  young  for  a  man  in  the 
middle  forties ;  but  call  him  thirty-five  and  much  of  the 
wonder  disappeared.  The  most  that  a  casual  acquaintance 
would  have  been  likely  to  remark  was,  "How  the  deuce  does 
Rose  manage  to  keep  so  extraordinarily  young-looking?" 
True,  his  friend  Trenchard  had  failed  to  recognise  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  fought  at  La  Bassee,  but  that  meant  little. 
There  were  millions  of  men  in  France,  each  the  spit  of  the 
rest  for  mud  and  momentariness  of  acquaintance.  To-day, 
by  mere  association  of  times  and  places  and  battles,  these 
men  are  in  fact  resuming  acquaintances  they  have  no  recol- 
lection of  ever  having  begun.  "Oh,  I've  a  rotten  memory 
for  faces — seen  So-and-so  lately?  And  I  say,  do  you  know 
anybody  who  wants  to  take  a  quiet  place  for  a  month?" 
That,  no  doubt,  had  been  the  substance  of  that  conversation 
in  the  Gloucester  Road  wine-bar.  .  .  .  And  there  was  an- 
other thing  of  which  I  shall  have  more  to  say  by  and  by.  I 
began  to  suspect  that  whatever  strange  element  in  Derwent 
Rose  had  brought  him  to  this  pass,  that  element  reacted  on 
those  of  us  who  knew  his  secret.  He  probably  became  less 
extraordinary  in  our  eyes  as  contemplation  of  him  made  us 


94  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

not  quite  ordinary  ourselves.  Julia  Oliphant  (it  seemed 
to  me)  he  had  already  influenced,  constrained,  isolated.  We 
were  getting  used  to  him.  But  I  shall  return  to  this. 

In  the  meantime  I  was  considerably  cheered.  He  remem- 
bered that  other  night ;  he  wanted  to  apologise  for  the  lunacy 
of  it;  he  had  given  a  perfectly  coherent  account  of  his 
present  whereabouts  and  how  he  came  to  be  there,  and  his 
summing-up  of  the  fellows  whose  basic  domestic  factor  was 
a  pint  of  methylated  spirits  had  given  me  a  clear  and 
straightforward  picture.  As  for  the  rest — why  he  had  left 
Cambridge  Circus,  what  it  was  that  he  found  restful  in  those 
slowed-down  films,  and  especially  the  measured  carefulness 
of  his  speech — for  the  present  these  things  could  wait. 

We  left  Gloucester  Road  Station,  turned  up  towards 
Princes  Gate,  and  then  crossed  the  road  and  entered  a  dark 
gardened  Square.  Three  minutes  further  walking  brought 
us  to  a  high  stone  archway  with  a  heavily  carved  and 
moulded  entablature,  beneath  which  a  cobbled  way  sloped 
slightly  down  into  a  mews.  To  right  and  left  were  garage- 
doors,  some  closed,  others  open  and  flinging  shafts  of  orange 
light  across  the  way.  Somewhere  an  engine  was  being  al- 
lowed to  "race";  somewhere  else  a  hose  was  being  turned 
on  to  the  body  of  a  car.  High  over  the  roofs  of  the  mews, 
as  if  suspended  at  random  in  the  sky,  the  oblongs  of  light 
of  the  South  Kensington  backs  showed.  One  unshaded 
incandescent  burned  on  a  top  landing  like  a  star. 

"Let  me  go  first ;  I've  got  a  torch,"  said  Derry,  stopping 
at  a  narrow  side-door  next  to  where  the  car  was  being 
washed.  "You'll  find  the  rope  on  the  right." 

The  moon  of  his  electric  torch  shone  on  the  broad  treads 
of  a  steep-pitched  ladder  that  rose  to  a  loft  above.  Up 
one  side  of  it  ran  a  hand-rope.  He  preceded  me,  and  on  the 
upper  landing  lighted  a  wire-caged  gas-jet.  Then  I  fol- 
lowed him  into  Trenchard's  abode. 

He  had  described  the  place  admirably  well  when  he  had 
spoken  of  the  methylated  spirits,  adding  that  Trenchard 
was  a  gentleman.  A  few  pieces  of  furniture — notably  a  tall 
walnut  hanging-cupboard  and  a  handsome  lacquered  cabi- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  95 

net — were  evidently  family  possessions ;  the  rest — his  cre- 
tonne curtains,  floor-mats,  the  blue-and-white  check  table- 
cloth on  the  thick-legged  Victorian  table  and  the  glimpse 
into  his  kitchen — probably  represented  the  greater  part  of 
his  gratuity-money.  Every  ledge  and  angle  and  cheap 
bracket  was  crowded  with  photographs,  and  there  were  trees 
in  his  long  row  of  boots.  His  central  incandescent  mantle 
was  unshaded.  Two  deep  basket  chairs  stood  one  on  either 
side  of  where  the  hearth  should  have  been.  The  portable 
oil-burning  stove  was  tucked  away  in  a  corner. 

"You  soon  get  used  to  the  noises,"  said  Rose  with  a  down- 
ward nod  of  his  head.  "I  scarcely  hear  'em  now. — Lemon- 
ade? It's  bottled,  but  not  bad;  tastes  of  lemons  anyway. 
There's  a  siphon  behind  you  there." 

He  put  me  into  one  of  the  basket  chairs  and  himself  took 
the  other.  Then,  without  the  least  warning,  but  still  with 
that  marked  effort  at  steadiness  and  care,  he  said : 

"Well,  what  price  the  world-political  state,  George?  Not 
home-politics,  but  the  whole  thing — democracy — civilisation 
if  you  like " 

If  he  had  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  the  theory  of  rela- 
tivity I  should  have  been  readier  with  an  answer.  As  it  was 
I  looked  askance  at  him  and  asked  him  what  made  him  so 
suddenly  ask  me  that. 

"Oh,  same  old  reason,"  he  replied.  "I  expect  it's  a  subject 
I  shall  have  to  tackle.  In  a  book.  I  wonder  if  it's  too  big ! 
It  pulls  me  enormously.  I  don't  know  whether  we're  in 
for  a  general  smash-up  or  not.  Sometimes  I've  the  feeling 
we  are." 

Something  within  me,  I  don't  know  what,  warned  me  that 
here  it  might  be  well  to  be  as  careful  as  he.  The  safest 
thing  to  do  appeared  to  be  to  let  him  run  on,  and  I  did  so. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  his  fine  smooth  brow  gathered  in 
thought,  "I  know  it's  enormous ;  perhaps  too  staggering  alto- 
gether for  one  man.  But  do  you  know,"  he  laughed  a  little 
as  if  at  himself,  "I  wonder  whether  it  is  so  enormous  after 
all !  There  might  be  quite  a  simple  idea  underlying  it,  I 
mean.  What's  more  enormous  than  human  nature?  Yet 


96  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

every  wretched  little  novelist  tackles  that  every  time  he 
writes  a  book.  It  all  depends  on  how  much  you  see  in  a 
thing.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  wouldn't  as  soon  tackle  one 
day  of  the  whole  world's  life  as  one  single  hour  of  a  human 
being's  heart." 

I  spoke  warily.     "You  haven't  tackled  it  yet?" 

He  hesitated.  "N — o,"  he  said  slowly.  Then,  quicken- 
ing a  little,  "The  fact  is,  George,  a  job  like  thaf  would  have 
to  be  rather  specially  approached.  I  mean  unless  you  were 
at  the  very  top  of  your  form  you'd  be  bound  to  come  a 
cropper.  No  good  starting  a  thing  till  you  know  your  tools 
are  sharp — in  this  case  your  faculties.  I'm — I'm  sharpening 
myself  now,  if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

At  this  point  I  became  incautious.  I  ceased  to  listen  to 
the  voice  that  warned  me  too  to  be  careful. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  want  to  ask  you,"  I  said.  "I  want  to 
know  what  you're  doing  here  and  why  you  left  Cambridge 
Circus  like  that." 

I  was  instantly  sorry  I  had  said  it.  Just  as  wrestlers  on  a 
mat  lie  locked,  with  little  apparent  movement,  yet  in  the 
fiercest  intensity  of  prolonged  strain,  so  I  felt  that  something 
struggled  in  him.  I  heard  it  in  his  voice,  I  saw  it  in  the 
boyish  grey-blue  eyes  that  sought  mine. 

"Don't,  please,  old  fellow,"  he  pleaded  anxiously.  "If  you 
mean  the  rot  I  talked  that  other  night,  I  apologise  now  once 
for  all.  I've  been  hoping  for  months  and  mon — for  a  long 
time,  I  mean,  that  I  might  run  across  you.  You're  so  mag- 
nificently steady.  That  other  place  stopped  being  steady. 
.  .  .  This  is  the  place  to  write  that  book.  I  want  to  write  it. 
I've  never  wanted  anything  so  much.  It  would  be  on  Vicar- 
age lines,  I  suppose,  but  oh — immensely  bigger!  Freedom, 
scope !  The  Vicarage  was  well  enough  in  its  way,  but  fussy 
and  niggly  and  scratchy.  I  can  do  this  largely,  grandly — 
I  know  so  much  more,  you  see — and  as  long  as  I  don't  take 
any  risks " 

Then,  in  spite  of  his  own  last  words,  he  swung  suddenly 
round,  and  the  youthful  grey-blue  eyes  were  all  a-sparkle. 
They  sparkled  with  daring,  as  if,  though  a  risk  was  a  risk, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  97 

there  was  sometimes  prudence  in  taking  it.  The  wicker  of 
his  chair  began  to  creak  under  the  working  of  his  hand. 

"One  little  talk  can't  make  much  difference,"  he  muttered. 

"Do  me  good  probably — magnificently  steady "  Then 

he  flashed  brightly  round  on  me — an  artist  at  the  height  of 
his  power  confronting  a  stupendous  and  magnificent  task. 

"You  see,  don't  you,  George?  You  see  how  I'm  placed, 
don't  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  very  clearly." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  I  want  to  write  this  book.  I  want  to 
write  it  as  Cheops  made  his  Pyramid,  as  Moses  made  his 
Decalogue — to  last  for  ever.  If  I  can't  write  it  no  living 
man  can.  Why  ?  Because  no  living  man  combines  in  him- 
self what  I  combine — the  ripest  and  fullest  store  of  knowl- 
edge and  experience  and  all  the  irresistible  recklessness  and 
belief  of  youth  at  the  same  time.  Here  I  stand,  between 
the  two,  and  if  I  can  only  stay  so  I  shall  write — I  shall 
write — oh,  such  a  book  as  never  was  dreamed  of !  So  I've 
got  to  stand  still  just  where  I  am  now.  I  haven't  got  to 
budge  from  thirty-three — that,  as  nearly  as  I  can  tell  from 
myself,  is  the  age  I  am  now.  You  see " 

Uneasily  I  began  to  wish  myself  elsewhere.  I  knew  that  I 
began  to  be  afraid  in  his  presence;  it  is  an  eerie  thing  to  hear 
a  man  deliberately  proposing  to  manipulate  his  age.  The 
man  down  below  continued  to  wash  the  car;  I  heard  the 
clank  of  his  bucket,  the  rushing  of  his  hose. 

"Thirty-three,"  he  continued,  his  eyes  still  glittering  with 
the  excitement  of  it.  "If  I  can  only  stay  so  for  six  months 
nothing  matters  after  that !  God,  just  for  six  months !  .  .  . 
But  it's  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds,  George.  You've  got  to  be 
on  the  watch  every  moment.  As  long  as  you're  moving  the 
thing's  simple  enough ;  it's  when  you  try  to  stop  that  it's  like 
trying  to  stand  still  on  a  bicycle.  Wait,  I'll  show  you.  Push 
that  table  over.  And  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  turn  down  the 
gas." 

It  was  not  the  heavy-legged  Victorian  table  he  wanted  me 
to  push  over,  but  the  one  on  which  our  glasses  of  lemonade 
stood,  a  flimsy  affair  of  bamboo  and  wicker,  hardly  more 


98  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

than  eighteen  inches  square.  He  rose,  turned  the  yellow 
incandescent  down  to  a  glimmer,  drew  the  table  up  before  us, 
and  brought  the  electric  torch  from  his  pocket.  He  began 
to  speak  with  very  much  more  volubility,  very  much  less 
care. 

"The  line  of  that  table-edge  is  what  I  want  you  to  keep 
your  mind  on,"  he  began.  "Never  mind  any  other  dimen- 
sion. You'll  get  the  idea  presently.  I  want  you  to  imagine 
that  edge  a  scale  of  years,  with  the  higher  numbers  at  your 
end  and  the  lower  ones  at  mine.  You're  to  imagine  that,  and 
then  you're  to  imagine  that  this  lamp's  my  mind,  me,  my 
faculties,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  You'll  get  on  to  it 
presently.  Now  watch." 

The  torch  was  not  of  the  stick-pattern,  but  of  the  flask  type 
with  a  wider  angle.  In  the  middle  of  the  table's  edge  he 
made  a  minute  notch  with  his  nail.  A  foot  or  so  of  the 
split-bamboo  edge  was  illuminated,  with  this  notch  in  the 
middle  of  it. 

"Now,"  he  said.  "You  see  that  notch  I've  made.  That's 
my  present  age — thirty-three — dead  in  the  middle  of  the 
lighted  portion.  Now  let's  start.  First  of  all  I've  got  two 
memories.  I've  got  one  in  each  direction.  I'm  the  only  man 
who  has.  And  this  part  of  the  edge  that  the  torch  lights  up 
is  my  total  range  both  ways.  Now  watch  me  move  the 
torch.  If  I  move  it  your  way" — he  did  so — "I  get  more  of 
memory  'A'  ('A'  for  Age)  and  less  of  memory  'B'  ('B'  for 
Boyhood).  And  if  I  move  it  my  way" — he  moved  it  his 
way— "I  get  less  of  'A'  and  more  of  'B/  See?" 

I  saw.     I  began  to  wish  I  didn't. 

"Very  well,"  he  went  on.  "Obviously  it's  for  me  to  decide 
where  I  want  to  stop,  and  then — to  do  so  if  I  can.  And  now 
the  bother  begins.  If — that — scale — could  be  numbered 
properly" — he  divided  the  words  as  I  have  divided  them,  and 
I  felt  cold  at  the  intensity  of  his  emphasis — "if  it  could  be 
divided  as  I  want  it  divided,  with  thirty-three  dead  in  the 
middle — then  forty-five  would  come  here."  He  crossed  his 
left  hand  over  the  one  that  held  the  torch,  as  a  pianist  picks 
out  a  single  treble  note,  and  dug  another  nick  at  my  end  of 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  99 

the  illuminated  portion.  "Now,"  he  continued,  "let's  see  what 
the  figure  would  be  at  my  end.  Forty-five  less  thirty-three 
is  twelve,  and  twelve  from  thirty-three's  twenty-one.  It 
would  be  twenty-one."  He  registered  another  notch,  this 
time  at  his  own  end.  "But" — swiftly  he  slid  the  torch  his 
way — "twenty-one's  no  good  to  me  at  all.  No  more  good 
than  a  sick  headache.  I've  got  to  be  younger  than  that. 
You  see  what  I've  got  to  do.  I've  got  to  combine  the  two 
maximum  phases  of  myself  if  I'm  to  write  that  book.  But 
at  the  same  time  I've  got  to  write  it  when  I  did  write  that 
kind  of  thing  before.  What  does  that  mean?  Where's  a 
bit  of  paper?" 

He  set  the  torch  down  on  the  table,  where  it  made  a  vivid 
flat  parabola  of  light,  and  took  an  envelope  from  his  pocket. 
In  the  semi-darkness  he  began  to  jot  down  figures. 

"Here  you  are.  Just  a  few  specimen  numbers  for  trial 
and  error.  I'm  assuming  that  the  scale's  capable  of  regular 
division,  which  it  isn't,  for  many  reasons ;  but  let's  take  it  in 
its  simplest  form. 

1 6 :33  -.50—21 :33  145— 30 133  -.36 

We  needn't  bother  about  the  last  one ;  I  only  put  it  in  to  show 
that  thirty-three's  got  to  come  in  the  middle  by  hook  or  by 
crook.  Now  do  you  see  what  I'm  up  against  ?  I  must  have 
sixteen  at  one  end,  I  mitst  have  forty-five  at  the  other,  and 
I  must  if  possible  have  thirty -three  in  the  middle,  because 
if  I  don't  write  this  as  I  wrote  The  Vicarage  of  Bray,  only 
infinitely  more  so,  I  shan't  write  it  at  all.  But  thirty-three's 
a  false  middle.  Thirty's  the  true  middle,  and  thirty's  per- 
fectly useless  to  me.  I  was  doing  quite  other  things  when  I 
was  thirty  before.  .  .  .  But  as  matters  stand,  if  I'm  thirty- 
three  I  can  only  remember  forty-five  and  twenty-one.  If 
I'm  thirty-three  and  remember  sixteen,  which  is  what  I'm 
after,  then  .  .  .  God  knows  what  would  happen  at  your  end  ; 
I  should  have  to  remember  fifty,  I  suppose,  and  I've  never 
been  fifty  to  remember.  So  something's  wrong,  and  I'm 
trying  to  fake  it." 


ioo  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Derry !"  I  choked.  "For  the  love  of  God  turn  up  that 
light!" 

"Eh?  Certainly.  Then  I  can  show  you  my  diagrams. 
This  is  all  elementary  stuff,  but  I  thought  it  would  give  you 
a  faint  idea  of  the  problem.  Now  the  most  important  factor 
of  all " 

But  I  didn't  want  to  see  the  hideous  thing  in  diagram  form. 
It  even  added  to  my  horror  that  he  didn't  seem  to  see  it  as 
hideous  at  all.  He  was  perplexed,  impatient,  angry  even,  but 
for  the  rest  he  had  approached  his  problem  as  methodically 
and  dispassionately  as  if  he  had  merely  been  taking  the 
reading  of  his  gas-meter.  Just  so  in  the  past  he  had  ap- 
proached that  sufficiently-enormous  work,  The  Vicarage  of 
'Bray — and  in  the  intervals  had  taken  Julia  Oliphant  to 
Chalfont,  jumped  five-barred  gates,  and  had  posed  for  her, 
stripped  to  the  waist  with  her  sewing-machine  held  above 
his  head. 

He  had  turned  up  the  gas  again,  and  was  hunting  in  a 
corner — for  his  diagrams,  I  supposed.  Suddenly  I  rose, 
crossed  over  to  him,  and  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Leave  it  alone,  old  man,"  I  said  in  a  shocked  voice.  "I 
don't  want  to  see  them.  I  won't  look  at  them.  I'm  too 
afraid.  Give  that  book  up  now.  We  aren't  meant  to  write 
books  of  that  kind.  Give  it  up,  clear  out  of  here,  and  let's  go 
away  together  somewhere." 

I  don't  think  I  altered  his  resolution  in  the  least.  He 
merely  patted  my  shoulder,  humouring  me. 

"Oh,  we'll  start  it  anyway,  George.  Once  I  get  fairly 
going  I  don't  mind  taking  a  day  or  two  or  a  week  off  with 
you.  I  always  enjoyed  stealing  a  few  days  when  I  was 
busiest.  No,  the  thing's  got  hold  of  me,  and  it  will  have  to 
run  its  course,  like  measles.  I  may  possibly  be  able  to 
split  the  difference  between  thirty  and  thirty-three.  I'm 
doing  my  very  utmost." 

"How?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  he  became  evasive.  "Oh — just  little 
dodges " 

"Like  watching  slowed-down  pictures?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  101 

He  became  still  more  evasive.  "If  I  hadn't  spoken  to  you 
to-night  you'd  never  have  seen  me,  you  know,"  he  re- 
proached me. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  though.  And  I  did  see  you 
once." 

"Where  was  that  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"In  a  hansom,  in  Piccadilly  Circus." 

He  winced.     "Don't,  George,"  he  begged  me. 

"And  you  weren't  alone." 

"George — I  say,  George — you  see  how  I'm  trying  to  keep 
steady.  Must  you  throw  me  all  over  the  shop  again  like 
this?" 

But  somehow  I  was  no  longer  afraid  of  him.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  it  might  be  no  ill  thing  to  anger  him.  Anger  was 
at  least  a  more  human  feeling  than  those  hideous  specula- 
tions of  his. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  since  you  left  Cambridge 
Circus?"  I  demanded. 

My  plan  looked  like  working.     He  confronted  me. 

"And  what's  that  got  to  do  with  you  ?"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  could  tell  you  what  you've  been  doing.  Natu- 
rally I  shan't." 

He  looked  coldly  down  on  me.  "No,"  he  said  slowly,  "I 
don't  think  I  would  if  I  were  you.  .  .  .  And  if  you've  seen 
me,  I've  seen  you  too,"  he  added  menacingly. 

"Be fore  to-night?" 

"Yes,  before  to-night." 

"Where  was  that?" 

There  was  contempt  in  his  tone.  "Oh,  nowhere  Discred- 
itable. You're  too  magnificently  steady  for  that." 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  we  were  standing  together  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  body  to  body,  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
room  empty.  I  only  know  that  I  was  not  afraid  of  him,  and 
that  my  intention  to  provoke  him  was  now  fixed.  Quite 
apart  from  those  inhuman  figures  and  graphs,  this  book 
that  he  was  contemplating  approached — I  will  risk  saying 
it — the  impious. 

"Well,  where  was  it  ?"  I  asked  again. 


102  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

His  eyes  were  unwinkingly  on  mine.  "You  were  coming 
out  of  my  place,  if  you  must  know.  And  I  imagine  my 
place  is  still  mine.  Since  we're  friends,  I  haven't  asked  you 
what  you  were  doing  there." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  without  asking.  I've  been  staying 
there,  on  the  chance  of  your  coming  back  for  something 
you'd  forgotten.  I've  got  your  key  in  my  pocket  now,  and 
I'm  going  back  there  to-night." 

He  muttered,  his  eyes  now  removed  from  mine. 
"Damned  good  guess.  I  did  come  back.  But  I  saw  you 
across  the  road  and  turned  away  again." 

"What  did  you  come  back  for?" 

"That  Gland  book.     But  I  got  a  copy  somewhere  else." 

"I  hope  you  found  it  useful." 

Then,  all  in  a  moment,  the  thing  for  which  I  was  longing 
happened.  He  broke  down  completely.  Instead  of  a  man 
trying  to  maintain  an  insane  tight-rope-balance  on  an  inde- 
terminable moment  of  time,  there  pitched  against  me,  crush- 
ing me  against  the  wall  and  bringing  down  a  shower  of 
Trenchard's  photographs,  a  man  who  could  be  met  on  com- 
mon ground  of  normal  experience.  His  arms  were  folded 
over  his  face.  I  heard  his  groan  within  them. 

"Lord  have  mercy  upon  me !  .  .  .  I  oughtn't  to  have 
talked — I  oughtn't  to  have  talked  ...  all  unsettled  again 
.  .  .  but  I  can't  let  sixteen  go  ...  perhaps  it  won't  let 
me  go.  .  .  ." 

"For  heaven's  sake  forget  that  nightmare !" 

But  he  mumbled  despairingly  on.  "Shall  have  to  be  thirty 
...  no  way  out  of  it  ...  why  did  I  let  myself  talk!  .  .  . 
Give  us  a  hand,  there's  a  good  fellow — 

I  got  him  into  his  chair  again.  I  soothed  him.  I  talked 
to  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  I  told  him  he  should  be 
whatever  age  he  wished,  should  write  any  kind  of  book  he 
pleased,  should  come  abroad  with  me.  Then  for  a  minute 
or  so  he  seemed  to  go  to  sleep.  I  watched  him.  The  sounds 
of  car-washing  had  ceased,  up  the  yard  somebody  whistled, 
and  I  heard  a  voice  call  "Good  night."  Past  Trenchard's 
cretonne  curtains  that  star  of  an  incandescent  on  the  upper 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  103 

landing  went  suddenly  out.  It  must  have  been  half-past 
eleven.  A  more  peaceful  beauty  stole  over  and  possessed 
his  face. 

But  he  was  not  asleep.  He  opened  his  eyes.  He  smiled 
faintly  at  me. 

"Well,  George "  he  said  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Then  he  told  me  the  history  of  his  past  three  weeks. 

II 

Of  his  past  three  weeks  or  his  past  two  or  three  years, 
whichever  you  like ;  for  it  was  both.  And  now  that  he  was 
in  comparative  peace  I  wished  to  spare  him  questions.  That 
illustration  with  the  flash-lamp  on  the  table's  edge  had  scared 
me  half  out  of  my  wits ;  and  if  the  determination  of  "ratios" 
or  what  not  meant  much  of  that  kind  of  thing,  for  the  pres- 
ent we  were  as  well  without  them. 

He  had  gone  back  to  the  point  where,  returning  that  after- 
noon to  Cambridge  Circus  to  fetch  a  book,  he  had  seen  me 
coming  out  of  his  house  and  had  turned  tail  again. 

"The  Gland  book,  you  said?"  I  asked.  "But  I  thought 
you'd  decided  that  that  road  led  nowhere." 

"So  I  had,"  he  replied,  "but  in  the  meantime  I'd  seen  a 
doctor." 

"Ah !     You've  seen  a  doctor  ?    When  was  that  ?" 

"Not  quite  a  fortnight  ago.  I'd  been  in  here  just  two  days ; 
I've  now  been  fourteen  in  all;  I've  got  every  day  and  hour 
down  in  my  diary ;  as  you  may  imagine,  I've  studied  myself 
with  the  greatest  care  and  tried  all  sorts  of  things  by  way 
of  experiment.  I  simply  must  know  how  much  is  exact 
repetition,  and  if  it  isn't  where  the  variations  come  in,  you 
see.  But  it  all  ends  the  same  way.  There's  always  an  un- 
accountable V  that's  constantly  shifting,  I  suppose,"  he 
sighed. 

"But  tell  me  about  the  doctor.  I  thought  you'd  decided 
that  this  was  quite  out  of  their  line." 

"So  I  had,  and  so  it  is,"  he  replied  promptly.  "I  didn't 
go  to  a  doctor  to  ask  him  to  cure  me." 


104  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Then  why ?" 

"Well,  I'd  several  reasons.  One  was  that  I'd  met  this 
man  just  once  before,  and  for  that  reason  alone  he  was  part 
of  my  investigations.  So  far  I'd  experimented  on  people 
who'd  met  me  twice,  or  three  or  four  times  before.  I'm  still 
experimenting,  but  at  present  the  result  seems  to  be  that  the 
better  people  know  me  the  less  they  recognise  me,  and  those 
who  only  knew  me  slightly  take  me  for  granted,  I  suppose." 

"And  did  this  doctor  recognise  you?" 

"Well — there  you  are.  I  simply  couldn't  tell.  I  waited 
for  him  in  the  full  light  of  a  window;  I  gave  him  every 
chance ;  but — well,  I'd  had  to  send  my  name  up,  and  he  was 
expecting  me,  you  see.  He  simply  said  'How  d'you  do,  Mr 
Rose'  and  shook  hands.  Probably  he  never  looked  at  me. 
He  knew  that  Mr  Rose  was  waiting,  and  therefore  the  per- 
son who  was  waiting  must  be  Mr  Rose." 

"So  that  was  a  wash-out.  What  else  did  you  want  to  see 
him  about?" 

"Next,  I  wanted  to  be  thoroughly  vetted — as  a  man  of 
thirty-three,  you  understand.  It's  all  very  well  looking 
young,  but  you  want  to  know  whether  you're  really  as  young 
inside  as  you  look.  So  I  told  him  some  sort  of  a  yarn  about 
an  insurance  policy  and  wanting  to  be  overhauled  for  my 
own  satisfaction  before  going  to  the  company's  doctor.  So 
he  asked  me  my  age — thirty-three,  I  said — and  ran  all  over 
me;  and  he  was  good  enough  to  say  that  I  was  a  very  fine 
man  and  needn't  worry  about  not  being  passed  as  a  first-class 
life." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  told  him  another  cock-and-bull  story.  It  was  as 
an  author  that  he'd  met  me  before,  you  see,  so  I  told  him 
I  was  writing  some  fantastic  sort  of  a  book,  and  wanted  one 
or  two  medical  facts  right.  I  had  to  go  rather  carefully 
here,  of  course,  but  I  gave  him,  as  nearly  as  I  dared,  an 
outline  of  what  had  happened,  and  asked  him  what  about  it." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  saw  nothing  very  extraordinary  in  it,"  said  Derwent 
Rose. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  105 

I  jumped  half  out  of  my  chair.  "What!  What  madman 
was  this?" 

Then  I  saw  the  faint  flicker  of  his  smile,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"Quite  a  distinguished  madman,  George ;  incidentally  he's 
a  Knight.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  want  to  pull  your  leg,  old  fel- 
low. He  didn't  put  it  quite  that  way.  What  he  actually  did 
say  was  that  the  more  a  man  studied  these  things  the  less  he 
would  swear  that  anything  was  an  impossibility.  And  he's 
a  remarkable  man,  mind  you.  I've  not  much  use  for  the 
average  doctor,  but  this  fellow's  big  enough  to  use  plain 
English  and  when  he  doesn't  know  a  thing  to  say  so.  His 
knowledge  isn't  just  how  to  conceal  his  ignorance.  And  he 
might  have  been  a  novelist  himself  from  the  way  he  instantly 
grasped  what  I  wanted  to  know." 

Not  an  impossibility!  ...  I  couldn't  have  spoken.  I 
waited  enthralled.  Derry  continued. 

"So  he  began  to  talk  about  the  ductless  glands.  Not  just 
the  thyroid.  Everybody's  got  thyroid  on  the  brain  now- 
adays, but  the  thyroid's  only  one  of  them.  There  are  a 
dozen  others.  And  then  he  told  me  that  practically  nothing 
was  known  about  them." 

As  I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  what  a  ductless  gland  was  I 
continued  silent. 

"  'Well,  Mr  Rose,'  he  said  at  last,  'if  you  want  something 
of  that  sort  to  happen  to  one  of  your  characters  I  should 
put  him  through  the  War  and  let  him  get  a  bash  over  the 
pineal  gland.' 

"  'Where's  that  situated  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Here,'  he  said." 

And  Rose  tapped  the  middle  of  the  back  of  his  head  with 
his  forefinger. 

"  'And  what  would  the  effect  of  that  be?'  I  asked;  and  he 
laughed. 

"  'Heaven  above  knows.  You  can  say  whatever  you  like. 
It  might  be  anything.' 

"  'Would  it  account  for  actual  morphological  changes  of 
tissue?'  I  asked. 


io6  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"  'I  wouldn't  say  it  wouldn't ;  that  would  depend  on  the 
changes ;  but  I  should  be  very  pleased  to  look  through  those 
portions  of  your  proofs,  Mr  Rose,'  he  said.  .  .  . 

"So  that  was  that.  I  went  straight  off  to  Cambridge  Cir- 
cus to  get  the  Blair-Bell  book,  but,  as  I  say,  I  saw  you  across 
the  road,  so  I  got  the  book  somewhere  else." 

"The  pineal  gland !"  I  murmured,  dazed. 

"Yes.  One  name  for  it's  The  Third  Eye.  Don't  ask  me 
to  explain  it.  But  if  I  understand  my  doctor-man  the  idea's 
something  like  this :  There  are  these  degenerated  organs  that 
man  in  his  present  stage  of  development  has  outgrown.  A 
lizard's  got  what  they  call  The  Third  Eye,  and  so  has  a 
lamprey,  and  lots  of  creatures.  And  the  whole  thing's  the 
wildest  nightmare  imaginable.  Takes  you  right  back  to 
fecund  mud  and  the  first  seminal  atom.  One  fellow,  I  forget 
his  name,  has  a  most  hair-raising  theory.  He  says  that  what 
they  call  the  'ancestral  type'  lived  in  the  sea,  rolling  about 
like  a  log  I  suppose — anyway  it  doesn't  seem  to  have  mat- 
tered whether  he  was  upside-down  or  not.  So  its  back  and 
front  were  both  alike.  But  as  time  went  on  it  was  more 
often  one  way  up  than  another,  and  the  creature  began  to 
adapt  itself.  It  grew  new  eyes  where  it  found  them  most 
convenient  and  stopped  using  the  old  one.  Very  likely  the 
old  one's  the  pineal  gland.  Or  words  to  that  effect.  .  .  . 
So  if  you're  now  a  'bilaterally  symmetrical  animal  with 
forward  progression,'  and  your  front's  where  you  back  used 
to  be,  and  anything  goes  wrong,  you're  a  sort  of  Mr  Facing- 
Both-Ways,  with  two  memories  like  me  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
.  .  .  And  a  whole  philosophy's  been  built  up  on  it.  Roughly, 
a  man's  spirit  and  matter  interpenetrate  throughout  every 
particle  of  him  so  that  there's  no  dividing  them — everywhere 
except  in  one  place.  There  they  exist  independently  and 
side  by  side.  All  the  mystery  of  life  and  death's  supposed 
to  be  located  there.  And  that  place  is  the  pineal  gland." 

Remember,  please,  that  this  conversation  took  place,  not  in 
Bedlam,  but  in  South  Kensington.  We  were  sitting  in  a 
commonplace  loft  over  a  garage,  on  ordinary  chairs,  with  two 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  107 

half-emptied  glasses  of  everyday  lemonade  before  us.  A 
gas-jet  in  an  incandescent  mantle  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and 
in  the  neighbouring  houses  average  people  were  beginning  to 
think  of  their  accustomed  beds.  They  had  pineal  glands 
too,  and  might  "get  a  bash  over  them,"  or  fall  downstairs,  or 
collide  with  something,  or  meet  with  a  street  accident. 
Would  they,  respectable  ratepayers  of  South  Kensington, 
revert  to  that  dim  time  before  the  waters  were  divided  from 
the  dry  land,  when  they  had  rolled  about  like  logs,  slumber- 
ing and  amorphous  and  unspecialised  types,  creation's  first 
blind  gropings  towards  the  glory  that  at  present  is  man? 
Would  they  develop  an  "A"  memory  and  a  "B"?  Would 
these  "bilaterally  symmetrical  animals  with  forward  pro- 
gression" resuscitate  that  degenerated  Third  Eye  in  the  backs 
of  their  heads  and  do  this  Widdershins-Walk  back  to  their 
beginnings  ?  Rose's  friend  the  doctor  had  said  that  nobody 
knew  anything  about  these  things.  Man  was  only  on  the 
verge  of  this  knowledge.  It  belonged  to  to-morrow  and  the 
days  to  come. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  found  myself  wondering 
whether  I  did  want  to  know  so  very  much  about  those  mor- 
rows after  all. 

At  last  I  found  my  voice.  "Then  you  accept  that  ex- 
planation?" I  said. 

"No,"  he  replied. 

"Thank  God  for  something!     Why  not?" 

"Oh,  for  various  reasons.  In  the  first  place  I  only  got  it 
as  a  sort  of  fiction-stunt,  remember.  He  merely  said  that 
nobody  could  contradict  me." 

"And  in  the  second  place?" 

"In  the  second  place,  I  still  think  yours  is  the  better  ex- 
planation— not  biology  at  all,  but  simple  right  and  wrong, 
good  and  evil.  Nothing  of  that  kind  ever  did  happen  to  me 
in  the  War  that  I  know  of — I  never  got  any  whack  over  the 
head — and  there's  one  other  thing  that  seems  to  me  to 
prove  it." 

"What's  that?" 


io8  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"That  I  do  know  the  difference  between  the  better  and 
the  worse,  and  want  the  better  all  the  time." 
"In  other  words — God?" 
"I  think  God  comes  before  a  gland,"  he  replied. 

Quite  apart  from  his  extraordinary  interview  with  his  doc- 
tor, the  past  few  weeks  had  been  a  series  of  the  commonest 
everyday  incidents  mixed  up  with  sheer  impossibilities  in  the 
most  bewildering  fashion.  As  I  stoutly  refused  to  see  his 
diagrams  and  the  details  of  his  diary  (though  I  saw  them 
later),  I  could  only  touch  the  fringe  of  his  experience  at  that 
time.  I  gathered,  however,  that  in  those  slowed-down  pic- 
tures he  had  found  a  certain  relief,  as  also  in  some  music, 
particularly  organ-music;  and  he  had  other  alleviations  of  a 
similar  nature.  But  I  noticed  that  obstinately  (as  it  seemed 
to  me)  he  chose  to  regard  the  interval  of  time  since  I  had 
last  seen  him,  not  as  the  three  weeks  it  really  was,  but  as  the 
fortnight  he  had  spent  in  that  loft  over  the  garage.  Of  the 
first  of  the  three  weeks  he  spoke  not  one  single  word.  I 
need  hardly  mention  the  reason.  He  was  looking  farther 
back  still.  As  he  had  been  at  thirty-five,  so  he  had  been  in 
the  twenties.  Those  "A"  memories,  so  recent,  were  "B" 
memories  too.  .  .  .  But  that  was  a  long  way  off  yet. 

Yet  among  so  much  vagueness  and  fluctuation  one  thing 
was  abundantly  clear.  He  had  left  behind  him  the  last 
vestige  of  the  man  who  had  written  An  Ape  in  Hell.  At  the 
very  least  he  was  now  the  man  who  had  written  The  Vicar- 
age of  Bray,  and  not  impossibly  he  was  an  earlier  man  still. 
And  here  I  had  better  say  a  word  or  two  about  the  Vicarage, 
not  as  describing  the  book  itself,  but  as  isolating  the  stage 
he  had  reached  and  differentiating  between  his  former  and 
his  present  experiences  of  it. 

It  was,  of  course,  the  "Tite  Barnacle"  portions  of  the 
book  that  had  pleased  the  public,  supposing  the  public  to  have 
been  pleased  at  all.  Yet,  witty  as  these  were,  they  were  the 
least  essential  parts  of  the  work.  The  book  had  to  be  classed 
as  Political,  Social,  Economic,  or  some  welding  of  all  three 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  109 

descriptions  ;  and  Rose  was  never  the  man  to  approach  a  sub- 
ject of  this  kind  with  his  mind  already  made  up.  He  recog- 
nised frankly  (for  example)  that  the  mere  mechanism  of  a 
Ministry  or  a  Department  is  a  gigantic  thing,  the  men  with 
the  habit  of  running  it  necessarily  few,  and  that  to  give  con- 
trol to  an  unpractised  hand  would  be  fatal.  Thus  his  book 
was  no  mere  slap  at  what  it  was  the  fashion  some  little  time 
ago  to  call  The  Old  Gang.  He  refrained  from  the  common 
gibe  that  the  surest  qualification  for  success  in  one  depart- 
ment is  to  have  failed  in  another.  Instead,  he  examined, 
first  the  machine,  and  then  the  man  in  charge  of  it.  Between 
these  two  an  accommodation  has  always  to  be  found.  No 
system  of  government  will  prove  altogether  a  failure  if  it  is 
in  the  hands  of  the  right  men,  and  equally  none  will  work 
if  it  is  in  the  hands  of  the  wrong  ones.  So  he  sought  the 
equilibrium  between  the  two. 

Not  one  reader  in  a  million,  laughing  over  that  merciless 
and  iridescent  book  that  Julia  Oliphant  said  he  had  written 
in  little  more  than  three  months,  had  the  faintest  idea  of  the 
sheer  burden  of  merely  intellectual  work  that  lay  behind  it. 
Piece  by  piece  he  had  dissected  the  whole  of  our  national 
economy  before  setting  pen  to  paper  at  all.  Bear  with  me 
for  a  moment  if  I  take  one  little  piece  only — Shipping.  It 
will  give  an  idea  of  the  scale,  not  so  much  of  the  Vicarage 
only  as  of  that  far  vaster  thing — the  book  he  now  projected 
and  for  the  sake  of  which  he  clung  so  desperately  to  his 
"false  middle"  of  thirty-three. 

Men  (he  argued)  need  ships;  but,  over  and  above  those 
who  actually  handle  them,  ships  need  men  no  less.  From 
one  standpoint  ships  exist  in  order  that  men  may  be  carried 
from  one  place  to  another ;  but  from  the  opposite  standpoint 
a  ship  is  merely  a  hungry  belly  that  must  be  constantly  fed 
with  its  human  food — passengers.  Without  its  meal  of  pas- 
sengers it  cannot  live  for  a  week.  Thus,  the  Thing  must 
move  the  Man  from  one  place  to  another  whether  he  wishes 
it  or  not,  whether  in  itself  it  is  desirable  that  he  should  be 
moved  or  not.  The  ships  of  one  nation  snarl  at  those  of 


no 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


another  for  this  sustenance.  Where  then  is  the  balance? 
Where  does  blind  force  get  the  upper  hand,  and  where  wise 
control?  What  happens  if  the  power  is  usurped  by  a 
"Vicar"  who  can  by  no  means  be  dislodged?  ...  I  need 
say  no  more.  You  see  the  yawning  immensities  of  it. 

And  that  was  only  Shipping.  There  were  a  hundred 
other  things.  He  had  applied  his  brilliant  intellect  to  them 
all  in  turn,  and  had  (as  I  may  say)  so  "orchestrated"  the 
whole  that  in  the  result  it  seemed  the  easiest  of  improvisa- 
tions. 

And  now  think  what  his  present  plan  was ! 

He  contemplated,  not  an  analysis  of  one  system,  but  a 
welding  of  analyses  of  all  systems! 

That  was  why  he  sought  to  juggle  with  his  own  years — 
that  he  might  combine  the  enthusiasm  of  sixteen  with  the 
grasp  and  certainty  and  power  of  forty-five,  and  at  the  same 
time  assure  the  coincidence  between  his  past  and  his  present 
impulses  to  create. 

Montesquieu  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  work — Moses' 
task  had  been  simpler. 

Therefore  I  saw  the  position  as  follows: 


He  was  thirty-three. 

He  was  in  a  rage  to  attempt  a 
work  for  which  no  man 
had  ever  been  equipped  as 
he  was  equipped. 

He  would  make  that  python- 
meal  of  material  and  pro- 
duce a  super-Vicarage. 

He  was  still  hanging  on,  his 
enthusiasm  at  its  keenest, 
his  experience  at  its  richest. 

Once  he  had  got  going  he 
would  take  a  week  off  with 
me,  a  day  with  Julia  Oli- 
phant. 


But  thirty-three  was  a  false 
middle. 

But  the  dazzling  endeavour 
might  elude  him  at  any 
moment. 


But  he  might  be  thirty  again 
before  he  digested  it. 

But  he  was  hanging  on  as  a 
straphanger  hangs  on — tot- 
teringly,  insecurely. 

But  not  until  he  got  going. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  in 

One  thing  was  clear.  He  would  have  to  give  it  up.  If 
necessary  he  would  have  to  be  made  to  give  it  up.  If  I 
couldn't  persuade  him,  Julia  must.  But  already  I  saw  the 
cost  to  him.  He  was  an  artist,  with  a  passionate  need  to 
create.  He  was  an  artist  so  highly  specialised  that  the 
creation  of  a  small  thing  merely  irritated  him.  But  see 
where  he  was  placed!  So  close  to  the  dreamed  splendour 
that  he  brushed  it  with  his  fingertips,  and  then  perhaps  to 
see  it  recede,  diminish,  go  out!  To  be  conscious  of  that 
inordinate  power,  and  to  have  the  agony  of  knowing  that  it 
could  not  last  long  enough  for  the  task  to  be  completed !  To 
be  unique,  as  he  was  unique,  and  yet  to  be  forced  to  share 
the  common  bitterness  and  humiliation  and  despair !  .  .  .  A 
few  moments  ago  I  risked  the  word  "impious."  To  my  way 
of  thinking  it  was  impiety.  If  it  was  not  impiety  I  do  not 
see  why  Prometheus  was  bound. 

For  what  was  this  monstrous  right  that  Derwent  Rose 
claimed,  to  put  all  the  rest  of  us  into  the  shadow  of  his  own 
overweening  and  presumptuous  glory?  Who  was  he,  to 
seize  on  immortality  like  this  ?  Not  satin  slippers  with  poor 
little  feet  inside  them  that  would  soon,  too  soon  be  dust — 
not  this  was  the  sin.  It  was  this  other  that  is  not  forgiven. 
And  man  is  forbidden  to  call  his  brother  by  the  name  that 
fitted  Derwent  Rose. 

Poor  Derry !  Apparently  he  could  do  nothing  right.  As 
Julia  had  said,  his  whole  life  had  been  one  marvellous  mis- 
take after  another. 

Suddenly  I  introduced  Julia's  name. 

He  had  not  moved  since  his  last  words  some  minutes  ago — 
that  he  thought  God  was  more  than  a  gland.  The  mews  out- 
side had  come  to  life  again.  Cars  were  returning  from 
suppers  and  the  theatres ;  the  glare  of  their  headlights  played 
palely  about  the  upper  part  of  his  window-frame.  He  now 
turned  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Good  sort,  Julia.  But  she's  forgotten  all  about  me  long 
ago." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

But  instead  of  answering  my  question  he  went  musingly 


H2  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

on.  "Funny,  that.  Dashed  funny.  I  forgot  all  about 
Julia  when  I  was  making  those  notes." 

"What  notes?" 

"Why,  of  the  way  I  strike  people.  Those  who  remember 
me  and  those  who  don't.  I  remembered  that  doctor,  who'd 
only  seen  me  once,  but  Julia,  who's  known  me  practically  all 
my  life,  I  go  and  forget  all  about.  In  fact  there's  only  about 
one  other  person  who's  known  me  as  long  as  Julia  has,  and 
she  absolutely  failed  to  recognise  me  when  I  spoke  to  her  a 
year  or  so  ago." 

My  nerves  became  all  jangled  again.  "Derry — how  long 
ago?" 

"About  a  year.  ...  As  you  were.  What  am  I  talking 
about  ?  Must  stick  to  one  scale  of  time,  I  suppose.  I  ought 
to  have  said  about  ten  days  ago." 

"What  was  all  this  ?"  I  asked,  though  I  knew  well  enough  ; 
and  he  became  grave  as  he  unfolded  another  aspect  of  his 
singular  case  to  me. 

"It's  difficult  to  explain  to  you,  George,  because  you  know 
the  whole  thing — though  how  you  kept  your  reason  when  I 
told  you  I  can't  imagine ;  magnificently  steady !  ...  As  a 
matter  of  fact  this  other  person  I  mean  was  Mrs  Bassett ; 
you  remember  I'd  been  looking  for  her.  Well,  I  met  her 
one  day  and  spoke  to  her" — he  coloured  a  little  at  the  mem- 
ory of  the  details  he  suppressed ;  "and  by  Jove,  it  was  a  les- 
son to  me !  A  perfectly  hideous  risk !  I  was  on  the  point 
of  telling  her  who  I  was  when  I  drew  back,  just  in  time. 
God,  how  I  sweated !  I'm  cold  now  when  I  think  she  might 
have  recognised  me.  .  .  .  Imagine  the  scene,  George; 
woman  screaming  and  falling  down  in  a  fit  in  the  street 
because  she  thinks  a  ghost's  spoken  to  her.  And  the  ghost 
himself — this  ghost" — he  tapped  his  solid  chest — "a  ghost 
marched  off  between  a  couple  of  policemen — if  two  could 
hold  me — I  don't  believe  ten  could — my  strength's  im- 
mense— immense " 

"But — but — then  haven't  you  even  a  name  to  anybody  who 
sees  you  more  than  once  or  twice  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  113 

Slowly  he  shook  his  head.  "You  see.  You  see  as  well 
as  I  do.  It  seems  to  me  that  to  everybody  but  you  I'm 
simply  dead.  I  can't  go  about  giving  people  fits  like  that. 
That  was  a  lesson  to  me,  speaking  to  Daphne  Bassett.  I'll 
never  do  such  a  thing  again.  ...  So  that  cuts  out  Julia  Oli- 
phant.  Pity,  because  she  was  a  good  sort.  Always  the 
same  to  me;  just  a  pal.  She  used  to  give  me  expensive 
paste-sandwiches  for  tea  when  I  knew  she  couldn't  afford  it ; 
I  used  sometimes  to  stop  away  on  that  account.  That  was 
when  she  lived  in  Chelsea.  Then  I  lost  sight  of  her  for  a 
bit,  but  I've  thought  a  good  deal  of  her  lately.  I  never  had 
a  sister.  .  .  .  Don't  mind  my  running  on  like  this,  old  fel- 
low. I've  nobody  but  you  to  talk  to,  nobody  at  all.  Funny 
sort  of  situation,  isn't  it — a  ghost  like  me  mourning  for  liv- 
ing people  ?  That's  practically  what  it  amounts  to." 

At  something  in  his  tone  I  interposed  abruptly. 

"Derry,"  I  said,  "you  haven't  been  thinking  of  putting  an 
end  to  yourself,  have  you  ?" 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"Eh?"  he  said.  "Why  not?  Of  course  I  have.  One  of 
the  first  things  I  did  think  of.  I've  been  pretty  near  it,  and 
if  I  find  I  can't  write  that  book  I  shall  be  near  it  again. 
And" — he  bent  the  grey-blue  eyes  solemnly  on  mine — "shall 
I  tell  you  what  would  completely  settle  it?  If  anybody 
should  see  that  ghost  and  scream !  .  .  .  I've  got  a  most  fear- 
ful power,  George.  A  man  who  can  make  people  scream  as 
I  could  oughtn't  to  be  at  large.  Ghosts  ought  to  get  where 
they  belong — off  the  map  altogether.  My  God,  if  it  slipped 
out  one  day  when  I  didn't  mean  it — just  these  three  words — 
'I'm  Derwent  Rose' " 

Then  suddenly  his  voice  shook  pitiably.  He  spread  out 
his  hands. 

"George,  old  fellow,  you  can't  imagine  what  a  joy  it  was 
to  see  you  at  that  place  to-night!  You  haven't  realised  it 
yet — you  don't  know  what  I  went  through  before  I  plucked 
up  courage  to  speak  to  you.  You're  the  only  living  creature 
I  used  to  know  that  I  can  know  now — the  only  one — the  only 


ii4  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

one  on  earth.  I  know  them,  but  I  daren't — daren't — let 
them  know  me.  It  gets  very,  very,  very  lonely  some- 
times  " 

Lonely  sometimes !  My  heart  ached  for  him.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  that  loneliness  was  a  gulf  that  all  the  pity  in  the 
universe  could  not  fill.  No,  I  had  not  realised.  I  had  thought 
I  had,  but  I  hadn't.  It  now  came  quite  home  to  me  that, 
while  he  was  free  to  make  a  new  acquaintance  at  any 
moment  he  pleased,  that  acquaintance  could  hardly  last 
longer  than  the  moment  in  which  it  was  made.  For  say  it 
lasted  for  three  weeks.  At  the  end  of  those  three  weeks 
the  hand  he  had  taken  would  be  three  weeks  older,  but  his 
own  hand  might  be  a  hundred  weeks  younger.  And  so  it 
must  go  on:  hail — and  farewell.  He,  beyond  measure 
gifted,  was  denied  this  gift.  He  could  not  stop  by  the  way 
to  make  a  single  friend.  For  others  the  calm  and  gentle 
progress  to  age,  the  greetings  among  themselves,  the  accost- 
ing by  the  loved  familiar  name;  but  Derwent  Rose  had  no 
name.  Without  a  name  Daphne  Bassett  had  set  a  dog  on 
him;  what  would  she  have  set  on  him  had  he  said  "I'm 
Derwent  Rose"?  Lightning  was  safer  to  handle  than  that 
name  of  his.  It  might  miss — but  it  might  hit,  make  mad, 
kill. 

Sooner  or  later,  I  supposed,  I  should  have  to  tell  him  that 
Julia  Oliphant  knew  as  much  about  his  state  as  I  knew  my- 
self. I  had  had  no  shadow  of  right  to  betray  him  to  her  thus. 
But  in  the  meantime  he  was  resolved  that  he  would  not  turn 
that  voltage  of  his  identity  either  on  to  her  or  anybody  else. 


Ill 

In  its  way,  one  of  the  most  singular  portions  of  our  con- 
versation occurred  when  I  asked  him  how  he  was  placed  as 
regards  money.  After  all  he  must  have  money.  Even  a 
man  who  lives  his  life  backwards  must  eat  and  have  his  boots 
soled,  and  pay  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  for  a  loft  over  a 
garage.  At  first  he  seemed  reluctant  to  answer  me. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  115 

"I'm  afraid  I  ran  through  rather  a  lot  just  at  first,"  he 
said  hesitatingly — his  first  admission  that  he  had  not  in- 
habited Trenchard's  garret  for  the  whole  of  the  time  since  I 
had  last  seen  him.  "But  that  will  be  all  right.  I  can  make 
lots  of  money." 

"How?"  ("Not  by  that  book  of  yours,"  I  said  emphati- 
cally to  myself.) 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  I  assure  you  I  can. 
I've  thought  it  all  out  most  carefully." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me." 

Then,  eagerly,  jerkily,  he  unfolded  his  maddest  idea  yet. 

"I  told  you  you  hadn't  grasped  it.  Nobody  grasps  it  till 
they've  got  to  live  it.  You  see,  it's  all  a  question  of  time. 
Now  look  at  it  carefully.  ...  I'm  not  fixed.  I'm  a  con- 
stantly moving  quantity.  For  that  reason  I  can't  take  an 
ordinary  job  like  anybody  else.  Oh,  I  could  get  one  all 
right.  It  would  be  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  for  me 
to  walk  into  one  of  these  Sandow  places,  Ince's  or  Jones's  or 
any  of  'em,  and  say,  'Just  pass  me  a  few  of  those  two  hun- 
dred pound  weights,'  and  scare  'em  alive  with  what  I  could 
do.  In  fact  that's  the  whole  situation — I  should  scare  'em 
alive.  You  can't  show  pupils  one  man  one  day  and  perhaps 
a  different  one  altogether  the  next ;  it  isn't  decent.  Here's 
a  nut  for  you  to  crack,  George :  I'm  dead,  a  ghost.  But  my 
appearance  is  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  things  you  ever 
saw.  A  man  like  me  can't  hide  himself.  The  King  or  the 
Prince  of  Wales  might  walk  down  Piccadilly  unrecognised, 
but  not  an  athletic  phenomenon  like  me.  So  as  well  as  being 
the  loneliest,  I'm  also  one  of  the  most  public  men  living." 

"So  you  propose  to  make  money  out  of  athletics  ?" 

"Steady ;  let's  take  it  as  it  comes.  I've  thought  it  all  out, 
and  I  don't  see  a  single  flaw  in  it.  Here's  the  problem:  I 
want  a  large  sum  of  money,  I  want  to  make  it  honestly,  and 
if  possible  instantaneously,  that  is  to  say  while  I'm  still  sta- 
tionary. Now  how  ami  to  do  it?" 

"You  can't  do  it." 

"Well,  I  say  I  can." 

"How?" 


n6  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

You  wouldn't  guess  in  a  hundred  years  what  it  was  he 
proposed  to  do. 

He  intended  to  fight  Carpentier. 

"All  in  the  fraction  of  a  second,  George,"  he  said,  appeal- 
ing for  my  approval.  "Knock-out  punch  for  one  of  these 
mammoth  purses,  fix  yourself  up  for  life,  and  then  disappear. 
It's  absolutely  sound  reasoning." 

"It's  the  craziest  thing  I  ever  heard." 

"Why?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  innocently  on  mine.  "It's 
perfectly  feasible." 

"How  would  you  get  the  match?  Do  you  suppose  any 
promoter  would  look  at  you?  Would  any  champion? 
Would  his  manager  let  him?  Remember  that  champion- 
ship's a  business.  Champions  make  money  as  long  as  they're 
champions  and  no  longer.  They  take  no  risks.  And  part 
of  their  business  is  to  sidestep  dangerous  matches." 

But  he  had  an  answer  to  that  that  evidently  seemed  to  him 
conclusive.  His  eyes  sparkled. 

"Exactly!  That's  the  very  reason  I  picked  Carpentier. 
Carpentier,  man,  Georges  Carpentier!  He  isn't  a  sidestep- 
per !  He's  the  most  thoroughgoing  sportsman  alive !  Look 
at  the  way  he  gave  that  Yorkshire  lad  his  match !  Sidestep, 
that  Frenchman?  Look  here.  You  know  I  speak  French 
like  a  native.  Well,  I  shouldn't  in  the  least  mind  going 
straight  up  to  him  and  putting  the  whole  proposition  before 
him." 

"That  you  were  out  after  his  championship  and  inci- 
dentally his  living?" 

"Yes,  and  I  jolly  well  know  what  he'd  do." 

"So  do  I.  He'd  turn  you  over  to  Descamps  and  the  nego- 
tiations would  last  a  couple  of  years.  That  isn't  instan- 
taneous." 

"He'd  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  That  great  fellow?  .  .  . 
Kiss  me.  He'd  kiss  me  on  both  cheeks,  shout  'C'est  fa!' 
and  tell  Descamps  to  fix  it  up  straight  away.  Of  course  I 
wouldn't  hurt  him." 

I  stared.     "Could  you  put  Carpentier  out?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  117 

He  laughed.    A  laugh  was  his  reply. 

"But  suppose — an  accident  can  always  happen — suppose 
he  put  you  out?" 

This  time  I  had  not  even  a  laugh  for  a  reply. 

He  was  fast  asleep. 

Asleep,  dead  off,  and  in  that  moment  of  time !  The  instant 
before  his  eyes  had  kindled  at  the  thought  of  what  a  lark  it 
would  be  to  take  on  that  peerless  Frenchman  and  put  him 
out ;  now,  between  a  question  and  an  answer,  those  eyes  were 
closed  and  he  slept  profoundly. 

With  immense  profundity.  I  bent  over  him  and  spoke  his 
name  in  his  ear.  I  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  He  was 
unconscious  of  either  action.  His  colour  was  blooming,  his 
breathing  deep  and  easy;  else  his  sleep  seemed  to  have  the 
immensity  of  death  itself.  Under  the  glaring  incandescent 
mantle  he  was  theatrical  in  his  beauty,  superb  in  the  relaxa- 
tion of  his  strength.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  him.  It 
was  almost  frightening  to  see  that  complete  annihilation  of  so 
much  physical  and  mental  power. 

To  write  that  book — and  to  fight  Carpentier!  He  had 
worked  it  coolly  and  impudently  out.  The  analytical  facul- 
ties he  would  have  brought  to  the  one  task  he  had  merely 
applied  to  the  other,  and  he  had  arrived  at  the  perfectly 
logical  answer  that  the  way  to  make  the  maximum  of  money 
as  nearly  instantaneously  as  possible  was  to  knock  out  Car- 
pentier. 

I  could  only  gaze  spellbound  at  him  as  he  slept. 

What  to  do  now  ? 

I  was  aware  that  this  question  had  been  waiting  for  an 
answer  ever  since  we  had  left  that  picture-house  in  Shaftes- 
bury  Avenue.  I  had  now  found  him,  or  he  me;  but  what 
next  ?  Let  him  go  again  ?  But  apparently  he  did  not  want 
to  go ;  he  clung  to  me  pathetically,  as  to  the  single  companion 
he  had  in  the  world.  Take  him  away  somewhere?  But  he 
had  refused  to  come,  had  urged  that  monstrous  book.  Was 
I  to  stay  here  with  him,  to  stay  all  night,  to  stay  till  Trench- 
ard's  return?  That  was,  to  say  the  least,  inconvenient. 


ii8  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Should  I  put  him  to  bed?  Somehow  I  hesitated  to  disturb 
that  vast  unconsciousness.  Poor  fellow,  he  richly  earned 
all  the  rest  he  got. 

I  went  into  the  bedroom,  brought  out  Trenchard's  quilt, 
and  spread  it  over  him.  I  moved  his  head  gently  to  the 
padded  portion  of  the  wicker  chair.  I  made  him  as  com- 
fortable as  I  could.  Then  once  more  I  stood  irresolute. 

It  was  now  after  one  o'clock,  and  that  powerful  sleep  had 
cut  us  clean  off  in  the  middle  of  things.  I  had  much,  much 
more  to  ask  him.  I  wanted  to  know  his  intentions  about  his 
rooms  in  Cambrfdge  Circus,  whether  he  thought  of  return- 
ing there,  whether  he  wanted  his  furniture  stored  or  sold. 
If  to  myself  and  Trenchard  and  possibly  a  few  others  he 
was  still  known  as  Derwent  Rose,  I  wanted  to  know  what 
his  name  was  to  tne  rest  of  mankind.  Merely  as  a  means  of 
communication  with  people  he  did  not  wish  to  meet  face  to 
face,  I  wanted  to  know  whether  his  handwriting  had 
changed,  whether  he  used  a  typewriter,  what  his  signature 
was  like. 

And  above  all  I  wanted  to  know  what  steps  I  must  now 
take  with  regard  to  Julia  Oliphant. 

Of  course  I  intended  to  tell  her  everything,  and  to  tell 
him  that  I  had  done  so.  The  worst  I  should  risk  would  be 
his  momentary  anger  that  I  had  betrayed  him.  He  had 
wished  to  spare  her  a  meeting  with  himself,  but  he  had  not 
known  that  she  was  unsparable.  More  than  that,  she  was 
indissuadable.  I  should  not  be  able  to  keep  her  from  him. 
And,  if  he  clung  so  touchingly  to  me,  found  me  so  "mag- 
nificently steady,"  what  comfort  would  he  not  find  in  that 
unvarying  constancy  of  hers?  He  might  break  out  on  me 
for  the  moment,  but  he  would  bless  me  for  it  by  and  by. 

I  sat  down  in  the  other  chair.     I  was  very  tired.     I  dozed. 

In  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  opened  my  eyes  again. 
He  had  not  moved.  It  was  a  mild  night,  the  deep  chair  was 
not  uncomfortable,  and  I  dozed  again  and  again  woke. 
Still  he  slept.  I  muttered  a  "Good  night,  poor  old  chap." 
I  was  too  drowsy  even  to  get  up  and  turn  down  the  incan- 
descent light. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  119 

This  time  I  slept  as  soundly  as  he. 

Afterwards  he  blamed  himself  that  he  had  not  sent  me 
away ;  but  that  sleep  had  dropped  on  him  like  a  falling  beam. 
All  his  sleep,  he  explained,  was  like  that.  Immeasurable 
chasms  of  time  seemed  to  have  passed  away  between  his 
closing  his  eyes  and  his  opening  them  again. 

So  this  is  what  came  next : 

A  light  creaking  of  his  chair  brought  me  suddenly  wide 
awake  and  sitting  up.  A  peep  of  grey  daylight  showed  in 
the  upper  portion  of  the  window-frame,  but  the  incandescent 
mantle  still  glared  yellowly  above  his  head.  He  had  moved, 
but  without  waking.  He  turned  his  head  and  slumbered  on. 

But  the  turn  of  his  head  had  brought  his  face  into  the 
light.  .  .  . 

He  only  shaved  once  a  day,  in  the  morning;  and  on  the 
following  morning  he  shaved  again.  But  it  was  his  whole 
beard  that  he  thus  shaved  off  daily,  thirty  days'  growth  in  a 
night.  He  had  had  no  set  intention  of  growing  that  beard 
that  I  had  seen  in  the  hansom.  A  few  days  before  coming 
to  Trenchard's  place  he  had  woke  up  one  morning,  stroked 
his  face,  and  found  it  there. 

There  he  slept — in  his  golden  beard. 


IV 

"Most  certainly  he  shall  write  his  book,"  Julia  declared. 

"Not  if  I  can  prevent  it,"  I  replied. 

"We'll  see  about  that.  You  don't  think  he'll  give  us  the 
slip  again?" 

"I  don't  think  so — I  mean  he  doesn't  seem  to  want  to  at 
present." 

"And  he  was  all  right  when  you  left  him?  Is  he  com- 
fortable there?  Had  he  a  good  breakfast?  Was  his  bed 
made  ?  Does  anybody  go  in  and  clear  up  for  him  ?  Had  he 
any  flowers?" 

"He's  quite  all  right  there.     He  wants  to  see  me  as  much 


120  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

as  he  can.  He'd  ask  me  to  stay  with  him,  but  he's  deter- 
mined to  get  ahead  with  that  book." 

I  did  not  tell  her  of  any  other  reason  why  he  might  wish 
to  be  alone  when  he  woke  up  in  the  morning.  I  assumed 
that  a  man's  shaving  operations  could  have  no  interest  for 
her.  But  this  is  what  had  taken  place : 

On  seeing  his  first  signs  of  stirring  I  had  slipped  quietly 
into  his  bedroom.  There,  lying  on  his  bed,  I  had  pretended 
to  be  asleep.  I  had  heard  his  tiptoe  approach,  the  slight 
creaking  of  the  door  as  he  had  peeped  in,  his  stealthy  cross- 
ing to  the  dressing-table,  where  his  razors  were.  Then  he 
had  stolen  out  again,  and  I  had  heard  a  kettle  filled  and 
other  preparations.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  had  (as 
he  supposed)  woke  me.  He  stood  there  by  the  bedside 
with  a  cup  of  tea  in  his  hand.  His  chin  was  smooth.  I 
wondered  about  that  other  morning  when,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  face,  he  had  first  found  the  beard  there.  And  I 
wondered  what  his  companion,  if  he  had  had  one,  had 
thought  of  it. 

"But  he  shall  write  his  book,  poor  darling,"  Julia  repeated. 

This  was  at  half-past  ten  in  the  morning,  in  her  studio, 
whither  I  had  walked  straight  from  Derry's  loft  over  the 
mews. 

"He  ought  to  be  locked  up  for  life  if  he  does,"  I  answered. 

But  she  was  very  obstinate.  Derry  (she  said)  should  do 
whatever  he  had  a  mind  to  do.  More  than  that  (and  a 
crafty  light  stole  into  her  dark  eyes  as  she  said  it),  she  in- 
tended to  help  him. 

"To  write  his  book  ?  And  what  do  you  know  about  writ- 
ing books  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  to  write  his  book.  You  say  he's — what  d'you 
call  it? — sharpening  his  tools,  getting  himself  fit.  Well,  I 
can  help  him  to  do  that." 

"How?" 

"I'll  leave  the  door  open  so  you  can  hear." 

She  ran  out  of  the  studio  to  the  little  cabinet  where  her 
telephone  was.  I  heard  the  following,  her  side  of  the  con- 
versation that  ensued. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  121 

"Is  that  9199?  Miss  Oliphant  would  like  to  speak  to 
Mrs  Aird,  please.  ...  Is  that  you,  Madge  ?  Yes,  this  is  my 
dinner-call.  .  .  .  Oh,  like  a  top,  and  I  know  your  phone's 
by  your  bed.  Madge,  my  dear,  I  want  to  know  who  that 
learned  person  was  I  was  talking  to  last  night:  yes,  the 
bibliomaniac  person.  .  .  .  Who?"  Then,  with  a  jump  of 
her  voice,  "What,  he's  staying  with  you  ?  He's  in  the  house 
now?  Do  send  for  him  immediately.  ...  Of  course  not, 
you  goose,  but  you  have  an  extension,  haven't  you?  .  .  ." 

And  then  this: 

"Oh,  good  morning!  Miss  Oliphant  speaking.  .  .  .  Ah, 
you've  forgotten!  .  .  .  Most  frightfully  excited  about  our 
conversation  last  night.  Will  you  tell  me  again  the  title  of 
that  book  and  whether  I  can  see  it  in  the  British  Museum? 
Wait  a  minute,  I  want  to  write  it  down.  .  .  ." 

Then,  carefully  and  as  it  were  a  letter  at  a  time : 

"Manuel — du — Repertoire — Bibliographique  —  Universel. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I've  got  that.  .  .  .  Paris,  44,  Rue  de  Rennes.  .  .  . 
Now  the  other  book,  please.  .  .  .  Decimal  Classification 
and  Relative  Index.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Melvil  Dewey.  ...  Is 
that  enough  to  identify  them?" 

Then  a  rapid  perfunctory  gush,  a  "Thank  you  so  much," 
the  receiver  clapped  on  again,  and  re-enter  Julia,  her  face 
ashine  with  triumph. 

"Well,  did  you  hear  all  that?"  she  said.  "You  can  take 
me  along  to  the  British  Museum  as  soon  as  you  like.  You'll 
have  to  get  me  into  the  reading-room,  because  I  haven't  a 
ticket.  Then  if  I  were  you  I  should  trot  away  off  to  Hasle- 
mere." 

"Who's  that  you  were  talking  to  ?" 

"A  most  fearful  bore  I  met  at  the  Airds'  at  dinner  last 
night.  At  least  I  thought  he  was  a  bore  then.  Now  he's 
a  duck  and  an  angel  and  I  could  kiss  him  all  over  his  bald 
old  head.  Goodness  is  always  rewarded,  George,  but 
not  often  the  next  morning  like  this."  She  clapped  her 
hands. 

"You're  less  comprehensible  than  ever  I  knew  you,  which 
is  saying  a  good  deal." 


122  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Dear  old  George!  When  you're  bald  I'll  kiss  you  too. 
And  Derry  shall  write  his  book." 

"And  fight  Carpentier?" 

"Poodledoodle !" 

And  she  flitted  out  again,  unfastening  her  painting-blouse 
at  the  back  as  she  went. 

I  knew  enough  of  Miss  Oliphant  by  this  time  to  treat  her 
apparent  irresponsibilities  with  respect.  I  had  never  heard 
of  either  of  the  books  of  which  she  had  spoken  over  the 
telephone,  but  I  risked  a  guess  at  their  nature — Biblio- 
graphique  Universel — Decimal  Classification — evidently  the 
subject  was  indexing,  and  she  had  met  somebody  at  dinner 
the  night  before  who  had  led  her  into  these  arid  fields. 
Naturally  she  had  been  bored.  But  now  she  was  in  a  rap- 
ture of  plotting  and  machination.  She  intended  to  assist 
and  encourage  Derry  in  that  inordinate  plan  of  his.  She 
came  in  again,  dressed  for  walking,  humming  a  blithe  tune. 

"Dear,  dear  Providence!  There  was  I  ready  to  snap 
Madge's  head  off  for  seizing  quite  a  nice  man  herself  and 
giving  me  old  Drybones,  but  now  I'm  going  to  send  her 
some  flowers.  See  the  idea,  George?" 

"What  are  these  books  ?" 

"The  very  latest  thing  in  the  way  of  indexing.  It  lasted 
nearly  the  whole  of  dinner.  Oh,  I  love  myself  for  being 
so  good !  He  drooled  along,  and  I  said  'How  thrilling'  and 
things  like  that,  thinking  of  something  else  all  the  time,  and 
now  this  gorgeous  piece  of  luck !" 

"A  Universal  Index  ?" 

"Yes,  of  the  whole  of  human  knowledge.  It's  all  done 
with  decimals — or  do  they  call  them  semicolons  ?  Dots  any- 
way. You  can  turn  up  anything  from  the  solar  system  to 
a  packet  of  pins  at  a  moment's  notice.  If  Derry  doesn't 
know  about  it  he'll  dance  with  joy.  .  .  .  But  come  along. 
I  must  see  those  books.  Let's  go  by  bus.  You  can  get  me 
a  reader's  ticket,  can't  you?" 

She  pushed  me  out  in  front  of  her  and  closed  the  door 
with  a  reckless  bang.  All  the  way  to  the  bus  she  talked 
as  delightedly  as  if  it  had  been  her  birthday. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  123 

"So  I  shall  mug  up  those  decimals  and  things  and  then 
go  and  be  his  secretary.  I  know  more  or  less  how  he  wrote 
his  Vicarage.  He  used  to  stride  up  and  down  my  room, 
thinking  aloud  about  it.  And  this  will  be  the  same,  only 
enormous!  He  says  he  wants  to  make  it  as  Moses  made 
his  Decalogue?  He  shall,  bless  his  heart.  Why  shouldn't 
he?  I  don't  see  your  stuffy  old  objections,  George." 

"One  of  them  is  that  Moses  didn't  'make'  the  Decalogue. 
He  went  up  into  Sinai  for  it." 

"Well,  leave  Moses  out  then.     Any  other  reason?" 

"I've  told  you.  If  it  isn't  exactly  blasphemous,  it's  get- 
ting on  that  way." 

"Why?"  she  said  with  heat.  "Was  the  Vicarage  blas- 
phemous? He's  simply  going  to  do  the  Vicarage  again, 
but  on  a  huger  scale.  If  he  can  write  a  gigantic  book  why 
should  you  say  to  him  'No,  you  mustn't  write  that — write 
a  littler  one  instead'?  He's  perfectly  entitled  to  write  the 
biggest  book  he  can.  He's  just  as  much  entitled  to  it  as 
you  or  any  other  writer.  You  only  call  it  those  names  be- 
cause it's  bigger  than  yours." 

She  glowed  with  jealousy  for  his  fame.  He  was  her 
demi-god,  and  she  would  have  had  all  the  world  bow  down 
before  him.  She  would  not  have  him  second  to  Homer — 
she  would  not  have  him  second  to  Shakespeare.  At  least 
so  it  struck  me,  and  I  could  only  shake  my  head  again  and 
again  and  repeat  that  in  my  opinion  it  was  not  a  legitimate 
ambition. 

We  had  mounted  to  the  top  of  a  motor-bus,  where  we 
occupied  a  back  seat.  For  some  minutes  she  did  not  speak. 
Then,  as  she  still  continued  silent,  I  looked  at  her  face.  At 
the  same  moment  her  face  turned  to  mine. 

What  worlds  away  from  the  truth  I  was  that  clear  look 
told  me.  His  fame?  She  didn't  care  twopence  for  his 
fame,  except  that  it  might  amuse  him.  His  book?  She 
didn't  care  whether  he  wrote  his  book  or  whether  he  didn't. 
To  her,  fame  and  books  were  the  vanities  with  which  men  so 
incomprehensibly  amuse  themselves  when  they  might  be 
thinking  of  something  that  mattered.  It  was  enormously 


124  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

more  than  that  that  her  eyes  told  me  on  the  top  of  that  east- 
bound  bus  that  morning. 

For  if  he  wished  to  remain  thirty-three,  she  too  as  in- 
tensely wished  and  willed  it.  He  should  write  any  book  he 
wanted,  do  anything  on  earth  he  liked,  so  long  as  that  loft  in 
a  South  Kensington  mews  became  an  upper  room  in  Cre- 
morne  Road  all  over  again.  She  would  flutter  about,  pre- 
tending to  be  indexing  the  whole  mass  of  human  knowledge 
for  him,  clipping  and  pasting  and  filing  within  sound  of  his 
voice ;  but  what  she  would  really  be  doing  would  be  to  cut 
Patum  Peperium  sandwiches  for  him,  to  see  that  he  fed 
himself  properly,  opened  his  windows,  made  his  bed,  had 
his  washing  and  mending  properly  done.  That  former 
Vicarage  period  had  been  the  summer  of  her  life ;  she  would 
now  thrust  herself  in  the  way  of  it  once  more.  That  she 
might  do  so  with  some  sort  of  countenance  she  was  on  her 
way  to  read  those  thorny  books  in  the  British  Museum.  The 
latest  thing  in  indexing  was  the  bait  with  which  she  set  the 
trap  of  her  adoration.  She  would  humour,  encourage, 
wheedle,  praise.  But  she  too  would  have  her  summer 
twice. 

We  did  not  speak  again  until  we  descended  in  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  and  walked  along  Great  Russell  Street. 
Then  as  we  approached  the  Museum  railings  she  turned 
abruptly  to  me.  She  wanted  her  final  confirmation  of  the 
facts. 

"You've  told  me  all  that  he  said  about  me?" 

"Yes."  (This  was  untrue.  I  had  suppressed  one  thing. 
I  had  not  told  her  that  he  had  sometimes  stayed  away  from 
Cremorne  Road  because  she  bought  things  for  him  she 
could  not  afford.) 

"And  he's  no  idea  at  all  that  I  know  anything  whatever 
about  it?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Tell  me  again  about  his  having  sometimes  thought  of 
me  lately." 

I  did  so.  "For  all  I  know  he  might  even  have  come  to 
see  you  but  for  the  fear  of  giving  you  that  shock." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  125 

"Well,  you  didn't  die  of  the  shock,  so  why  should  I? 
Come  and  get  me  my  ticket." 

We  passed  through  the  glazed  doors  and  along  the  Ro- 
man Gallery.  I  rang  at  the  closed  door  where  the  tempo- 
rary tickets  are  obtained.  There  was  no  difficulty,  and 
slowly  we  walked  past  the  double  row  of  Caesars  and  Em- 
perors again.  I  had  taken  her  arm.  Somehow  I  suddenly 
felt  as  though  I  were  about  to  lose  her,  perhaps  for  a  long 
time,  perhaps  for  an  even  longer  one.  I  spoke  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Do  you  think  it  will  be — safe?  Just  to  walk  in  on  him, 
I  mean.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  prepare  him  first?" 

"No,  no — that's  the  one  thing  I  am  sure  of." 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  trust  yourself?" 

"I  don't  know.  If  I  can't  there's  an  end  of  everything, 
so  I  must." 

"What  about  our  going  together?" 

"No,  nor  that  either."     She  flushed  a  little  as  she  said  it. 

I  think,  though  I  am  not  sure,  that  there  was  jealousy  in 
that  flush.  In  that  unspeakable  solitude  of  his  Deny  had 
so  far  only  a  single  friend — myself.  She  was  prepared,  if 
she  could,  to  steal  my  share  of  him,  to  have  him  all  to  her- 
self. 

"But  I've  got  to  see  him  to-day ;  I  promised  it,"  I  said. 

"Then  off  you  go  now,  while  I'm  here.  But  you're  not  to 
say  a  word  about  my  coming.  Then  if  I  were  you  I  should 
get  off  to  Haslemere." 

She  meant  I  had  better  get  out  of  the  way  altogether.  I 
sighed.  .  .  .  "Well,  come  and  get  your  books." 

We  sought  the  reading-room,  and  I  put  her  into  a  seat  and 
passed  to  the  catalogue  counter.  I  took  her  slips  to  her  for 
signature,  dropped  them  into  the  basket,  and  then  returned 
to  her.  It  was  early,  and  few  readers  had  yet  arrived. 
We  were  in  the  "N"  bay,  which  we  had  to  ourselves.  I 
saw  her  look  up  at  the  million  books,  dingy  and  misty  in  the 
pale  light  of  the  high  rotunda.  I  saw  her  dark  eyes  travel 
along  the  frieze  of  names  in  tarnished  gold — Carlyle,  Tenny- 
son, Browning.  In  the  past  I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of 


126  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

time  in  the  reading-room ;  now  it  is  a  place  I  get  out  of  as 
quickly  as  I  can.  It  crushes  me,  annihilates  my  spirit  with 
the  weight  of  the  vanity  of  vanities.  Of  the  makers,  as 
well  as  of  the  making  of  books,  there  is  no  end.  They  are 
born,  they  lisp,  they  spell,  they  write;  and  then  they  die. 
The  eager  heart,  the  busy  brain,  are  a  few  tarnished  letters 
on  a  frieze,  a  strip  of  paper  gummed  into  the  casualty-list 
of  a  catalogue.  We  think,  write,  and  to-morrow  we  die. 
Only  one  man  was  not  going  to  think,  write,  and  die  to- 
morrow. He  was  going  to  be  different  from  all  men  who 
had  gone  before  him.  Because  of  something  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  he  was  going  to  blazon  his  name,  not  in  that 
circular  cemetery  of  dead  books,  but  across  the  whole  width 
of  the  heavens  outside. 

And  this  tired  woman  trifling  with  the  tips  of  her  long 
fingers  against  the  book-rest  as  she  waited  for  her  books 
was  going  to  be  his  accomplice.  She  was  going,  by  means 
of  something  called  love,  to  keep  him  at  that  acme  of  his 
powers  where  innocence  and  wisdom  met  and  in  the  past  he 
had  thrown  her  a  friendly  word  from  time  to  time.  She 
was  going,  single-handed,  to  arrest  that  backward  drift  of 
his  life.  Whatever  had  caused  it  should  be  thwarted  in  her. 
He  should  not  be  thirty.  He  should  remain,  if  she  could 
compass  it,  thirty-three  for  as  long  as  he  wanted — for  the 
rest  of  his  life  and  hers. 

I  wondered  the  dome  did  not  fall  on  her. 

Presently  she  turned  her  head  and  smiled  in  my  eyes. 

"Well,  don't  you  wait,  George.  Thanks  so  much.  Good- 
bye." 

I  left  her  sitting  there,  in  that  vast  and  brown-hued  well, 
still  waiting  for  her  books. 


PART  IV 
THE  DOUBLE  CROSS 


A  conspicuous  feature  about  my  small  house  in 
Surrey  is  its  lake — eighty  yards  by  forty  of  clear  dark 
water  among  the  oak  and  willows,  spring-fed  and  with 
trout  in  it.  This  lake  lies  immediately  in  front  of  the 
house,  where  other  houses  have  their  lawns.  It  needs  a 
good  deal  of  attention,  for  springtime  sheddings  that  are 
charming  on  grass  are  messy  on  water,  and  nothing  but 
wind  can  sweep  the  glossy  surface.  But  its  infinite  variety 
of  mood  lights  up  the  whole  place  like  a  smiling  eye,  and 
I  am  very  attached  to  it. 

Not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  bicycle-ride  away 
is  a  preparatory  school  for  boys  up  to  the  age  of  fourteen. 

Need  I  say  that  I  have  had  to  put  up  a  diving-platform 
at  one  end  of  the  lake? 

There  are,  of  course,  certain  rules:  bicycles  to  be  left  at 
the  potting-shed,  diving  from  the  punt  not  allowed,  not 
more  than  four  bathers  at  one  time,  etc.,  etc.  But  within 
these  limits  the  pond  is  as  much  theirs  as  mine,  and  seldom 
a  summer  afternoon  passes  without  a  bathing-party. 

I  had  done  Julia's  bidding  and  had  come  back  home 
again.  It  had  been  on  a  Wednesday  morning  that  I  had 
left  her  waiting  for  her  books  in  the  reading-room  of  the 
British  Museum.  It  was  now  Friday,  and  I  had  not  heard 
a  word  either  of  her  or  Derry. 

I  had  tried  not  to  think  of  them.  Finding  that  impossi- 
ble, I  had  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down,  no  good  to 
myself  or  to  anybody  else.  On  Thursday,  and  again  on 
Friday,  I  had  almost  returned  to  London.  I  could  not 
shake  off  that  picture  of  her,  sitting  alone  in  that  dreary 
rotunda  of  accumulated  human  knowledge.  Had  she 
started  that  crack-brained  index,  he  his  terrifying  book? 

129 


130  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Had  she  gone  to  him  ?  What  had  she  said  ?  What  had  he 
replied?  I  could  neither  guess  nor  forget  about  it.  As  if 
he  had  infected  me  with  something  of  his  own  calamity, 
my  mind  too  was  in  two  places  at  the  same  time — among  the 
Surrey  oaks  and  sweet-chestnut,  and  in  that  loft  where  he 
had  lived  over  the  South  Kensington  mews. 

My  study  is  an  upper  room  at  the  front  of  the  house,  with 
French  windows  that  open  on  to  a  wide  verandah.  I  often 
drag  out  a  table  and  work  outside.  But  work  that  morn- 
ing was  impossible.  I  was  too  unsettled  even  to  answer 
letters.  So  I  walked  out  on  to  the  verandah  and  leaned  on 
the  ramblered  rail.  The  oaks  across  the  lake  were  turning 
from  gold  to  green,  and  the  two  big  willows  by  the  diving- 
stage  were  a  ruffle  of  silver-grey.  Under  the  clear  surface 
the  trout  were  basking  shadows.  I  wished  the  afternoon 
were  here.  It  would  at  least  bring  the  boys  to  bathe. 

Suddenly  I  heard  my  housekeeper's  step  on  the  verandah 
behind  me.  She  always  walks  straight  through  the  study  if 
she  gets  no  answer  to  her  knock. 

"Miss  Oliphant,"  she  announced. 

I  nearly  jumped  out  of  my  skin. 

"Miss  Oliphant!     Where?" 

"In  the  drawing-room,  sir." 

In  five  seconds  I  was  through  the  study  and  half-way 
downstairs.  The  drawing-room  is  a  cool,  low-ceilinged 
apartment  at  the  farther  end  of  the  house.  It  has  windows 
on  two  of  its  sides,  those  to  the  north  green  with  brushing 
leaves  and  a  ferny  bank,  the  others  glazed  doors  that  that 
morning  stood  wide  open.  As  I  entered  I  heard  mingled 
laughter. 

They  both  stood  there. 

They  were  silhouetted  against  the  sunny  opening,  laugh- 
ing like  a  couple  of  children.  Perhaps  the  joke  was  that 
Julia  only  had  been  announced.  I  stood  watching  them 
for  a  moment ;  then  I  advanced. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said. 

Julia  gave  a  swift  turn.  The  next  moment  she  had 
pushed  Derry  forward. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  131 

"You  explain — I  wash  my  hands  of  it,"  she  laughed. 

She  wore  thick  shoes  and  a  walking-costume,  and  on  her 
head  was  a  little  felt  hat  with  a  pheasant's  feather.  He 
had  on  an  old  tweed  jacket  and  grey  flannel  bags.  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Hope  we're  not  dragging  you  from  your  work,  George," 
he  laughed.  "Do  you  good  anyway.  I  felt  like  a  day  off, 
so  I  dug  out  Julia.  'Down  tools,  Julia/  I  said;  'no  work 
to-day.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  Shall  we  give  George  Cover- 
ham  a  surprise?'  So  here  we  are,  to  lunch,  please.  By 
Jove,  there's  a  kingfisher!" 

He  sprang  out  on  to  the  terrace  to  see  where  the  electric- 
blue  flash  had  whistled  off  to. 

Swiftly  I  glanced  at  Julia.  In  her  eyes  was  the  old  deep 
shining.  But  Derry  called  over  his  shoulder: 

"That  was  a  young  one,  wasn't  it?  Is  there  a  nest? 
How  many  hatched  out  ?  Do  they  go  for  the  fish  ?" 

He  seemed  splendidly  fit,  perfectly  happy.  He  seemed 
so  happy  that  suddenly  I  wondered  what  I  had  been  making 
myself  so  miserable  about.  A  weight  seemed  to  lift  all  at 
once  from  my  mind.  Too  much  London  had  oppressed  me, 
I  supposed.  Cambridge  Circus  is  not  the  place  for  a  coun- 
try-living man  to  stay  too  long  in.  It  bred  too  many  fancies. 
Much  better  for  the  Circus-dweller  to  come  into  the  coun- 
try. 

"It  went  over  by  that  bank,"  Derry  was  saying,  still  peer- 
ing after  the  kingfisher ;  and  I  stepped  out. 

"Yes.  The  nest's  right  in  the  bank.  Six  of  them 
hatched.  You'll  see  another  in  a  minute." 

But  at  that  moment  his  eyes  fell  on  the  punt.  Quickly 
he  turned  to  Julia. 

"Years  since  I've  had  a  punt-pole  in  my  hand!"  he 
exclaimed.  "Is  it  in  working  order,  George?  Come 
along » 

"You  go,  Julia,"  I  said ;  and  I  returned  into  the  house  to 
see  about  lunch. 

What  had  happened  ?  Had  he  really  brought  her  out  for 
the  day  on  his  own  account,  as  formerly  he  had  used  to  do? 


132  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Or  was  she  allowing  him  to  think  that  he  had?  Was  he 
repeating  himself  even  textually,  in  those  words  "Down 
tools,  Julia,  no  work  to-day"?  I  must  know.  It  was  es- 
sential that  I  should  know.  Yet  already  something  in  his 
manner  told  me  that  I  should  not  learn  it  from  him.  He 
was  here  not  to  talk  about  himself,  but  to  enjoy,  keenly 
and  vividly,  every  moment  of  his  day.  Whatever  my  own 
megrims  had  been,  he  showed  none.  Not  he,  but  Julia, 
would  have  to  explain  matters. 

Suddenly  I  took  a  resolution.     I  pushed  at  a  baize  door. 

"Mrs  Moxon!"  I  called. 

My  housekeeper  appeared. 

"Would  it  be  upsetting  your  arrangements  if  I  asked  my 
visitors  to  stay  for  the  week-end  ?"  I  asked. 

She  considered  a  moment;  then  she  thought  it  could  be 
managed.  But  she  seemed  puzzled. 

"It  is  Mr  Rose,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

Derry,  I  may  say,  had  been  to  my  house  twice  or  thrice 
before. 

"Of  course." 

"I  thought  it  was,  sir,  but  they  told  me  only  to  say  Miss 
Oliphant." 

"Oh,  that  was  their  little  surprise  for  me,"  I  replied. 
"Very  well,  Mrs  Moxon.  Lunch,  and  I'll  ask  them  to  stay 
for  the  week-end.  My  sister  left  a  few  things,  didn't  she  ?" 

"That'll  be  all  right,  sir.     I'll  see  to  Miss  Oliphant." 

I  came  out  of  the  house  again  and  sought  the  lake.  They 
were  out  in  the  middle  of  it,  lying  down  in  the  punt  together 
with  their  heads  over  the  side.  They  were  watching  the 
trout.  I  was  on  the  point  of  hailing  them  when  I  refrained. 
Something  dramatic  in  their  juxtaposition  pulled  me  up 
short. 

Their  heads  were  together,  their  laughter  came  across  the 
water.  She  was  having  her  summer  again.  But  what  would 
it  cost  her?  Her  unchanging  adoration — and  his  affection- 
ate indifference!  He  had  never  cared,  he  never  would  care. 
To-morrow  he  would  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  But  she 
would  have  still  another  day's  memories  to  add  to  those 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  133 

others  when  he  had  jumped  five-barred  gates  with  his  pipe 
in  his  mouth  and  his  stick  in  his  hand — memories  of  my 
punt  and  pond  and  the  greening  oaks  and  the  silvery  wil- 
lows. .  .  .  Yet  she  was  laughing  as  carelessly  as  he.  They 
were  playing  a  game.  A  willow-leaf  had  floated  like  a 
fairy  shallop  towards  them,  and  he  was  blowing  it  her  way, 
she  blowing  it  back  again. 

Then  a  dragonfly  caught  their  attention,  and  they  forgot 
the  willow-leaf,  as  instantly  as  children  forget. 

At  lunch  I  sat  with  my  back  to  the  open  windows,  they 
where  they  could  look  out.  Apparently  he  had  completely 
forgotten  that  night,  only  three  days  ago,  when  he  had  told 
me  that  I  was  the  only  one  of  his  old  acquaintances  to 
whom  he  dared  reveal  himself.  He  called  her  Julia,  she 
him  Derry,  and  to  both  of  them  I  was  George.  We  laughed, 
joked,  said  anything  that  came  into  our  heads ;  but  beneath 
it  all  I  was  in  an  extreme  of  curiosity.  How  had  they 
come  together?  What  had  happened  that  there  was  now  a 
second  person  in  the  world  to  whom  he  could  pronounce 
his  name? 

Half-way  through  lunch  I  made  my  proposal  that  they 
should  remain  for  a  couple  of  days.  His  brow  suddenly 
clouded.  I  watched  him  carefully,  and  I  knew  that  Julia 
was  watching  him  as  carefully  as  I. 

"Awfully  good  of  you,  George,"  he  said  in  a  suddenly 
altered  voice,  "but  I  really  don't  think  I  can  spare  the  time. 
I  only  downed  tools  for  one  day,  you  know.  I  really  must 
get  back." 

"But  to-morrow's  Saturday.  I  promise  to  let  you  go  on 
Sunday  evening  if  you  really  must." 

"I'm  so  fearfully  busy,  you  see,"  he  said  uneasily. 

Under  the  table  I  felt  Julia's  foot  touch  mine.  She 
spoke. 

"Fancy  Derry  talking  like  a  minor  novelist  about  being 
busy!"  she  laughed.  "Why,  you  always  used  to  say  that 
if  it  was  as  hard  work  as  all  that  something  was  wrong 
and  ought  to  be  seen  to!" 


134  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

His  brow  instantly  cleared  again.  "That's  so,"  he  said. 
"Did  I  say  that?  I'd  forgotten.  Busyness  is  all  bunk,  of 
course;  made  for  duffers.  A  thing  either  does  itself  or  it 
doesn't.  .  .  .  Right,  George,  I'll  stop  if  Julia  will.  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  if  I  go  to  bed  rather  early  though.  I  really 
have  been  hard  at  it,  and  I  need  a  lot  of  sleep." 

"This  air'll  make  you  sleep,"  I  assured  him.  I  did  not 
add  that  if  he  wished  to  go  to  bed  early  lest  he  should  sink 
into  abysmal  sleep  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  he  should 
have  his  wish.  Razors  and  a  spirit-lamp  were  going  to  be 
put  into  his  room.  A  little  teapot  and  caddy  would  also  be 
placed  there.  I  intended  to  tell  Mrs  Moxon  that  he  was 
faddy  about  his  early-morning  tea.  He  might  then  use  his 
hot  water  for  any  purpose  he  wished. 

We  took  coffee  outside,  and  then  went  for  a  stroll  round 
my  few  acres.  In  the  kitchen-garden  he  had  a  new  idea. 
Over  a  hedge  at  one  end  of  it,  well  out  of  the  way,  was  a 
rather  unsightly  dump  of  old  household  rubbish — tins,  burst 
buckets,  old  zinc  baths,  broken  utensils  of  every  kind.  A 
few  spadefuls  of  earth  are  thrown  over  these  from  time  to 
time,  and  a  handful  of  nasturtium-seeds  once  in  a  while 
helps  to  mitigate  the  eyesore. 

"You  want  an  incinerator,  George,"  he  announced. 
"Here's  all  your  stuff  ready.  Hammer  this  old  junk  out 
flat,  get  the  blacksmith  to  cut  a  few  rods,  a  cartload  of 
stones  and  a  few  barrowloads  of  clay,  and  there  you  are. 
Lots  of  fine  ash  for  your  beds  too,  though  I  shouldn't  think 
this  soil  needed  much.  Got  a  pencil?  I'll  show  you — 

He  made  rough  sketches  of  the  incinerator  on  the  back 
of  an  envelope. 

We  strolled  back  to  the  pond  and  the  punt  again,  and 
he  threw  off  his  coat,  turned  up  his  sleeves,  and  poled  us 
up  and  down.  He  glowed  with  vitality  and  power.  Both 
for  strength  and  delicacy  of  touch  he  did  whatever  he  liked 
with  the  punt.  One  beautifully-finished  little  feat  he  per- 
formed. A  blossom  of  water-starwort  floated  on  the  pond 
some  fifteen  yards  away.  Julia's  hand  was  trailing  lazily 
in  the  water. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  135 

"Keep  your  hand  just  as  it  is,"  he  ordered  her. 

She  had  only  to  close  her  fingers  on  the  blossom.  With 
one  perfect  stroke,  one  complicated  thrust  of  the  pole,  that 
included  I  knew  not  what  components  of  opposite  forces 
reconciled  to  one  end,  the  flower  sped  swiftly  to  her  hand 
and  rested  there.  There  was  no  jar,  only  a  thrilling  as  of  a 
sound-board  as  the  punt  fetched  up  still.  He  laughed  with 
pleasure  at  his  skill. 

Then  at  that  moment  I  heard  the  sound  of  boys'  voices. 
The  bathing-party  had  arrived.  I  turned  to  Julia. 

"They  come  every  afternoon.  Would  you  like  to  go  up 
to  the  house,  or  will  you  stay  here  in  the  punt  under  the 
trees  ?" 

"Oh,  in  the  punt,  please,"  she  said;  and  Derry  turned 
quickly. 

"Bathing?  Did  you  say  boys  were  going  to  bathe?  I 
say,  that's  rather  an  idea!  Got  a  spare  costume,  George?" 

Across  the  lake  a  stripling  figure  stood  on  the  diving- 
stage  with  a  towel  about  his  shoulders.  It  was  Du  Pre 
Major.  He  dropped  the  towel,  stood  poised,  and  then  came 
the  sound  of  a  plunge.  Berry's  eyes  shone.  In  a  moment 
he  had  put  the  punt  in  under  the  trees. 

"That's  done  it,"  he  laughed.  "Can  I  ask  your  house- 
keeper for  a  towel?" 

"You  know  my  room.  You'll  find  everything  you  want 
there." 

"Right.     I've  nearly  forgotten  how  to  swim ' 

He  stepped  from  the  punt  and  ran  lightly  round  the  pond. 

Julia's  wet  fingers  still  held  the  flower.  Her  head  hung 
a  little  down,  so  that  the  light  from  the  water  was  thrown 
softly  up  on  to  her  face.  Her  eyes,  but  her  eyes  only, 
moved  as  the  sound  of  another  plunge  was  heard ;  but  it 
was  only  the  other  Du  Pre  and  Southby.  I  did  not  speak. 
There  would  be  time  enough  for  talking  after  Derry  had 
gone  to  bed — early. 

Then  over  by  the  house  a  gleam  of  white  appeared.  It 
was  Derry  with  a  robe  of  towelling  over  his  shoulders.  He 
did  not  take  the  path  to  the  diving-board;  instead,  he 


136  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

dropped  the  towel  on  a  grass  border,  looked  aloft  for  a 
moment,  and  then  took  a  straight  run  at  one  of  the  willows. 
It  was  a  "cricket-bat"  willow,  and  it  overhung  the  diving- 
board  at  an  angle  out  of  the  vertical.  How  he  managed 
the  leap  I  do  not  know,  but  in  a  moment  he  was  up  the  tree 
like  a  squirrel,  poised  in  the  fork,  laughing  down  at  the 
surprised  boys  on  the  stage  below. 

"Stand  clear,"  he  called. 

His  path  through  the  air  was  a  swallow's.  There  was  a 
soft  plunge,  a  hissing  effervescence  as  of  black  soda-water, 
and  he  shot  to  the  surface  again  like  a  javelin,  a  dozen  yards 
away. 

"Oh,  ripping  plunge,  sir !"  one  of  the  boys  called  raptur- 
ously. "Jimmy!  Did  you  see  it?  Did  you  see  that?" 

"Come  in — let's  make  a  dog-fight  of  it!"  Derry  cried. 

And  one  after  another  they  tumbled  in  and  splashed  to- 
wards him. 

I  have  been  told  that  that  Friday's  four  are  still  the  en- 
vied of  the  whole  school.  He  was  very  wonderful  with 
them.  The  dog-fight  over  he  set  to  work  to  coach  them. 
They  had  never  seen  the  stroke  that  consists  of  turning  the 
left  leg  from  the  knee  downwards  into  a  screw-propeller, 
so  that  the  swimmer  travels  forward,  not  in  a  series  of  im- 
pulses, but  at  a  uniform  rate  of  progress.  He  showed 
them  in  the  water,  and  then  hoisted  himself  to  the  diving- 
platform  and  showed  them  there.  The  stage  became  a 
comical  waggling  of  nubile  white  legs. 

"No,  no,"  his  voice  came  to  us,  "from  the  knee — think  of 
a  screw — and  about  a  six-inch  stroke  with  your  left  hand — 
it's  worth  learning — makes  swimming  as  easy  as  walk- 
ing- 


"Show  us  a  racing-stroke,  sir " 

"Shut  up,  Jimmy.  Is  this  right?  It  does  catch  your 
knee,  though : 

"Do  that  dive  again,  sir 

Then,  when  Derry  judged  they  had  had  enough  of  it,  he 
ordered  them  out.  He  himself  did  a  final  dash  of  the 
whole  eighty  yards  and  back  again,  while  the  water  boiled 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  13? 

behind  him.  Then  he  sought  his  wrap  and  disappeared  into 
the  house. 

"He's  'some'  swimmer,  isn't  he?"  said  Julia  softly.  She 
had  neither  spoken  nor  moved. 

He  was. 

But  even  I  could  see  that  he  knew  nothing  of  women. 

The  bit  of  water-starwort  was  still  in  her  hand.  Sud- 
denly with  a  little  laugh  she  tossed  it  over  the  side. 

"Oughtn't  he  to  have  some  tea  ?"  she  said.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  wish  to  labour  the  details  of  that  afternoon.  I 
may  say  that  already  I  had  a  very  distinct  and  curious  im- 
pression of  them,  namely,  that  they  were  details,  isolated 
and  without  continuity;  but  I  will  come  to  that  presently. 
We  sat  rather  a  long  time  over  tea,  and  Derry  talked.  The 
only  subject  he  seemed  to  avoid  was  that  of  his  work. 
Otherwise  he  was  alert,  keen,  dead  "on  the  spot."  On 
athletics  he  was  extraordinarily  illuminating.  Granted  that 
as  an  engine  his  body  was  pretty  near  perfection ;  it  was  on 
the  "fundamental  brainwork"  of  the  subject  that  he  laid 
the  greatest  stress.  The  modesty  of  the  demonstrations 
which  he  made  on  the  verandah  before  our  eyes  was  alto- 
gether charming;  he  was  as  simple  and  earnest  with  us  as 
he  had  been  with  the  boys.  For  such-and-such  a  perform- 
ance (he  showed)  your  balance  must  be  thus  and  thus;  for 
swiftness,  a  certain  speed  of  movement  must  be  the  per- 
fectly-synchronised sum-total  of  half  a  dozen  different 
speeds.  I  am  no  very  remarkable  athlete  myself;  I  have 
always  supposed  that  I  lacked  some  special  gift;  but  Derry 
spoke  almost  as  if,  by  the  mere  taking  of  thought,  he  could 
add  a  cubit  to  his  leap  or  plunge.  He  took  his  sport  and  his 
writing  in  very  much  the  same  way.  You  "just  helped 
nature  all  you  could." 

Then  he  was  back  on  the  subject  of  the  incinerator  again. 

Shortly  after  that  it  was  an  oak  that  ought  to  be  lightened 
on  one  side  unless  I  wanted  to  have  a  hole  torn  in  the  bank 
of  my  pond. 

Then,  dinner  over,  he  began  to  fidget.  This  was  at  a 
little  after  eight  o'clock.  At  twenty  past  he  rose  abruptly. 


138  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"It's  that  bathe  I  suppose,"  he  yawned.  "If  you  don't 
mind  I  think  I'll  turn  in.  You  said  I  might,  you  know " 

"I'll  show  you  up,"  I  said. 

"Don't  trouble,"  he  replied,  Julia's  hand  in  his. 

But  I  wanted  to  make  sure  that  the  tea-caddy  was  where 
I  had  told  Mrs  Moxon  to  put  it. 


II 

On  the  night  when  he  had  half  scared  me  out  of  my 
wits  with  that  horrible  demonstration  with  the  electric  torch 
on  the  edge  of  the  bamboo  table,  he  had  been  careful  to  ex- 
plain that  he  was  putting  the  question  in  its  most  elementary 
form.  There  were  (he  had  said)  other  factors,  and  more 
important  ones.  One  of  these  had  already  occurred  to  me. 
Stated  as  simply  as  possible,  it  was  this: 

As  he  had  held  the  torch  that  night,  with  that  notch  that 
"had  got  to  be  thirty-three"  in  the  middle  of  the  illuminated 
edge,  about  six  inches  on  either  side  of  the  notch  had  come 
within  the  lamp's  beam.  "Keep  your  eye  on  that  edge  and 
never  mind  the  other  dimensions,"  he  had  said,  and  he  had 
proceeded  to  manipulate  the  lamp. 

But  how  had  he  determined  the  distance  at  which  the 
lamp  must  be  held  from  the  table's  edge? 

You  see  the  enormous  importance  of  this.  The  lighted 
portion  of  the  edge  was  the  extent  of  his  memory,  faculty 
or  whatever  one  may  call  it.  But  what  about  that  memory's 
quality  as  distinct  from  its  extent?  Suppose,  instead  of 
holding  the  torch  a  foot  away,  he  had  held  it  three  inches 
away  only?  The  nearer  the  shorter — but  the  brighter;  the 
farther  away  the  longer — but  the  dimmer.  Our  childish 
recollections  are  intense,  but  of  small  things ;  as  we  grow 
older  we  remember  more,  but  more  vaguely.  ...  I  find 
that  I  shall  have  to  make  use  of  the  parallel  columns  again. 
Indeed  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  shall  have  to  do  so  through- 
out. Was  this  then  the  position? 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


139 


BY  APPROACHING  THE 
LAMP 

He  might  re-live  a  given  age 
again  with  great  intensity. 


Emotion  or  passion  might  be- 
come predominant  charac- 
teristics, at  the  expense  of 
intellectual  comparisons. 

He  certainly  would  not  suc- 
ceed in  any  task  that  de- 
manded width  of  outlook 
first  of  all. 

He  might  concentrate  so  bril- 
liantly as  to  perform  a  mo- 
mentary and  sensational 
feat — say  to  knock  out  Car- 
pentier. 


A  summer's  day  in  the  coun- 
try might  be  almost  unbear- 
ably beautiful  to  him. 


BY  WITHDRAWING  THE 
LAMP 

The  intensity  would  dimin- 
ish but  the  scope  of  mem- 
ory would  enlarge. 

He  might  become  compara- 
tive, critical,  philosophic, 
but  at  the  cost  of  intensity 
of  emotional  experience. 

He  might  be  in  danger  of  in- 
cluding so  much  that  he 
would  become  diffuse  and 
pointless. 

The  speculative  man  might  get 
the  upper  hand  of  the  prac- 
tical one  and  he  would  fail 
in  a  supreme  momentary  ef- 
fort— in  other  words,  Car- 
pentier  would  knock  him  out. 

It  would  me  merely  a  matter 
of  fresh  air  and  exercise,  to 
be  set  off  against  the  work- 
ing hours  lost  and  the  cost 
of  two  railway  tickets. 


I  am  anxious  not  to  go  beyond  my  brief.  I  knew  that 
for  the  purpose  of  his  book  he  was  attempting  to  manipulate 
himself,  but  what  his  success  had  so  far  been  I  did  not 
know.  Nevertheless  all  the  possibilities  had  to  be  consid- 
ered, and  the  more  I  thought  of  this  one  the  more  it  im- 
pressed me.  For  practical  purposes,  these  differences  of 
memory-intensity  might  turn  out  to  be  the  pivot  on  which 
all  else  turned. 

For  suppose  that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  go  back  and 
re-open  the  closed  book  of  his  life,  and  that  nothing  that 
Julia  or  I  could  do  would  stop  him.  Whether  in  that  case 


140  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

was  the  better :  to  live  as  it  were  day  by  day  and  hour  and 
hour,  with  joy  and  grief  experienced  at  their  highest  pitch, 
or  to  continue  to  possess  to  the  full  this  unique  and  double 
knowledge,  of  a  past  that  had  been  a  future  and  of  a  future 
that  was  once  more  a  past? 

To  put  it  in  another  form,  since  he  must  do  this  Widder- 
shins  Walk,  was  it  better  for  him  to  know  he  was  doing  it, 
or  to  do  it  knowing  as  little  as  possible  about  it? 

Or,  in  its  simplest  form  of  all,  would  he  be  happier  with 
or  without  a  memory  of  any  kind? 

I  said  good  night  to  him  at  the  door  of  his  room  and 
closed  it  behind  me.  I  had  not  taken  more  than  a  couple 
of  steps  when  I  heard  him  softly  lock  it.  I  went  down  to 
Julia  in  the  drawing-room. 

Even  on  a  warm  summer's  evening,  when  the  windows 
stand  wide  open,  I  like  a  wood  fire.  Outside  the  heavens 
were  a  beauteous  pink  glow,  with  one  amber  star.  The 
trout  were  rising  for  their  evening  meal,  and  a  sedge- 
warbler  sang  short  sweet  phrases.  From  time  to  time  a 
moorhen  scuttered  along  the  surface  of  the  pond,  and  the 
smell  of  night-flowering  tobacco  floated  into  the  quiet  room. 
But  Julia  had  no  wish  to  go  out.  Into  a  pair  of  my  sister's 
slippers  she  had  thrust  her  worsted-clad  feet,  and  she  was 
toasting  her  toes  and  smiling  into  the  fire. 

"Is  that  window  too  much  for  you?"  I  asked. 

"No." 

"Then  put  this  shawl  over  your  shoulders.  You'll  have 
hot  milk  to  go  to  bed  with." 

"Thank  you,  George." 

"And  now,"  I  said,  drawing  up  my  chair  opposite  to  her, 
"tell  me  what's  happened  since  Wednesday." 

She  mused.     "Happened  to  him?" 

"I  want  to  know  all  that  you  did.     Did  you  go  to  him  ?" 

"No.  He  turned  up  at  the  Boltons  this  morning  and 
dragged  me  out,  exactly  as  he  said." 

"But " 

"Oh,  I'd  sent  him  a  note." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  141 

"Ah !     I  wondered.  .  .  .  What  did  you  say  ?" 

"It  was  only  a  couple  of  lines.  I  forget  what  the  exact 
words  were.  I  merely  said  that  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least 
afraid  of  anything,  and  that  anyway  I  hadn't  a  dog  to  set  at 
him.  Just  that.  Nothing  else.  I  wrote  it  in  the  Museum 
after  you'd  gone." 

"And  that  fetched  him  round?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

She  hesitated.  "That's  just  it,  George.  He  hasn't  even 
referred  to  it." 

"What,  not  in  any  way  ?" 

"Not  in  any  way." 

"He  just  came  into  the  Boltons  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  he's  talked  all  day  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ?" 

"That's  exactly  it." 

"He's  not  mentioned  his  book?" 

"Only  what  you  heard  at  lunch." 

"He  is  writing  it?" 

"One  would  gather  so.  You  know  as  much  about  it  as 
I  do." 

I  gazed  into  the  fire.  A  louder  splash  came  from  the 
pond — one  of  the  three-pound  rainbows.  Julia  resumed  of 
her  own  accord. 

"You  see,  when  you  left  me  in  the  Museum  I  really  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  After  what  you'd  told  me  I  didn't  want 
to  risk  upsetting  him  by  simply  walking  in  to  his  place  un- 
announced. So  I  wrote  that  note,  and  he'd  get  it  last  night. 
And  he  was  round  early  this  morning.  But  he  hasn't  even 
mentioned  the  note.  I  suppose  he  got  it,  but  things  aren't 
in  the  least  like  what  you  told  me.  You  told  me  he  was 
passionately  grateful  at  finding  you.  Well,  that  doesn't  at 
all  describe  his  manner  to  me.  He's  jolly,  keen,  full  of 
enjoyment  and  zest  at  everything  that  comes  along — and 
that's  all.  He  must  have  understood  my  note ;  that's  why 
I  put  in  that  bit  about  the  dog ;  if  he  didn't  understand  he'd 
have  to  ask  what  that  meant.  But  not  one  single  word. 
What  do  you  suppose  has  happened  ?" 


142  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

A  little  disingenuously  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by 
"happened." 

"To  him  of  course.  I've  told  you  all  /  did.  It  must  have 
been  rather  heartrending  between  you  two ;  so  why  this  per- 
fect composure  now  that  there  are  three  of  us  ?" 

I  didn't  know.  I  was  a  little  afraid  to  guess.  But  again 
I  pondered  that  distance  of  the  torch  from  the  table's  edge. 
.  .  .  Julia  was  still  gazing  into  the  fire,  her  long  hands  be- 
tween her  knees,  so  that  her  walking-skirt  shaped  them. 
Then  suddenly  she  looked  from  the  fire  to  me. 

"How  many  things  has  he  talked  about  to-day,  since  he's 
been  here?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

I  moved  uneasily.  "Oh — how  many  things  does  one  talk 
about  in  a  day?  Hundreds,"  I  replied. 

"But — at  such  a  pitch!"  She  threw  the  word  at  me  with 
almost  accusatory  energy.  "Top-note  all  the  time — birds' 
nests,  punts,  athletics,  incinerators,  those  boys  bathing — 

Less  and  less  at  my  ease,  I  could  only  urge  that  a  holiday 
was  a  holiday,  and  that  Derry  might  as  well  have  stayed  at 
home  as  bring  his  cares  with  him. 

"You  think  it's  just  that?"  she  demanded,  looking  me  full 
in  the  face. 

"I  should  say  so." 

"Hm !" 

But  in  spite  of  that  rather  critical  "Hm!"  she  seemed 
reassured.  Suddenly  she  gave  a  soft  chuckle. 

"He  was  rather  wonderful  with  those  boys,"  she  said. 

"They're  nice  boys." 

"What  a  games-master  he'd  make!"  Then,  with  a  sly 
and  guilty  look  in  her  eyes,  "What  shall  we  do  to-morrow, 
George?  Oh,  it's  ripping  luck,  being  here  unexpectedly 
like  this !" 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?  There's  the  car  if  you 
want  to  go  anywhere !" 

"N — o,"  she  said  reflectively,  as  if  running  over  in  her 
mind  a  dozen  delectable  plans.  "I  think  just  potter  about 
here.  Rushing  about  in  cars  ...  no,  it's  perfectly  ador- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  143 

able  here.  I  don't  want  to  set  foot  out  of  your  grounds. 
George,  you  are  a  duck !"  She  hugged  herself. 

Whether  he  was  living  from  moment  to  moment  or  not, 
there  was  no  doubt  about  her.  She  basked  shamelessly. 
I  am  not  making  her  out  to  be  anything  she  was  not.  She 
was  a  ready,  practical  creature,  by  no  means  above  what  is 
called  feminine  littleness,  not  very  young,  but  with  her  own 
beauty.  It  was,  too,  her  beauty's  hour.  Sitting  there  be- 
tween the  firelight  and  the  fairness  of  the  evening  outside, 
long-throated,  cool-browed,  with  the  glow  of  the  wood- 
flames  richly  in  her  eyes,  her  body  seemed  an  ivory  lamp 
that  guarded  its  light  with  sacred  and  jealous  care.  And 
that  flame  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  stolen.  She  now 
intended,  calculated,  planned,  contrived.  Up  to  that  mo- 
ment I  had  supposed  her  to  be  waiting  (as  it  were)  in  that 
remembered  Sussex  village,  waiting  at  the  centre  of  what- 
ever mystery  had  happened  to  him,  waiting  for  him  to  come 
back  to  her.  But  now  I  knew  that  she  was  doing  nothing 
so  passive.  She  was  not  waiting.  She  was  prepared  to 
bring  events  about.  To  the  little  that  he  had  spared  her  on 
his  forward  journey  she  was  prepared  to  help  herself  im- 
measurably as  he  returned.  Like  a  footpad  she  watched 
his  drawing-near.  Sitting  there  by  my  fire,  with  that  day's 
memories  still  glowing  about  her,  she  was  contriving  fur- 
ther ones  for  the  morrow.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  the  whole  scope  of  her  daring  flashed  upon 
me.  At  twenty-eight  she  had  failed  to  get  him.  Now,  at 
forty,  she  would  not  scruple  to  make  use  of  whatever  arts 
she  had  since  acquired. 

She  would,  if  she  could,  marry  Derwent  Rose. 

I  cannot  tell  you  my  stupefaction  at  my  own  discovery. 
It  was  wellnigh  with  awe  that  I  looked  at  her.  For  in  that 
case  her  adventure  was  hardly  less  tremendous  than  his 
own.  That  is  what  I  meant  when  I  said  that  he  began  to 
constrain  us  and  to  draw  us  into  the  wheel  of  his  own 
destiny.  To  marry  a  man  of  diminishing  age!  To  marry 
a  man  who  had  lately  been  forty-five,  was  now  at  some  un- 


144  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

known  point  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  thirties,  and  would 
presently  miraculously  re-attain  adolescence!  What  un- 
heard-of marriage  was  this? 

As  if  she  enumerated  something  to  herself,  one  slender 
finger-tip  was  on  another.  "First  I  shall  go  with  him  to  the 
blacksmith's  about  those  rods,"  she  said  softly. 

I  avoided  her  gaze.  "I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "that  I  want 
an  incinerator  built." 

"But  Derry  wants  to  build  it,"  she  answered,  as  if  that 
settled  the  question. 

"He  may  have  forgotten  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

Swiftly  she  turned  on  me.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"The  plain  meaning  of  the  words — he  may  have  forgot- 
ten." 

"Do  you  mean  something  about  his  memory?" 

"Which  memory  ?     He's  two  of  them — so  far." 

"Teh!  .  .  .  You  just  this  moment  said  that  he  was  de- 
liberately putting  things  away  from  him  because  this  was  a 
holiday.  Did  you  say  that  just  to  keep  me  quiet?  Don't 
you  believe  it  yourself?" 

"I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve.     I  simply  don't  know." 

"Oh,  you're  tiresome!  ...  In  plain  English,  then:  are 
you  suggesting  that  when  he  came  to  me  this  morning,  the 
only  reason  he  didn't  mention  my  note  was  that  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it  in  the  night?" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  It  all  happened  in  the  night. 
That  was  why  he  went  to  bed  early.  That  was  why  I  had 
given  him  a  spirit-kettle  for  tea — or  shaving.  Something 
might  have  happened  during  the  night  of  which  she  spoke. 
Something  might  be  happening  in  my  house  at  that  very 
moment. 

"Do  you  mean  his  memory's  cracking  up?"  she  demanded. 

"I  think  we  could  find  out." 

"How?" 

"By  getting  him  to  talk  about  his  book.  To  write  that 
book  he  must  draw  on  both  his  memories,  experiences,  or 
whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  That's  his  whole  equipment 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  145 

for  it — two  conscious  experiences,  with  himself  balanced  in 
the  middle  making  the  most  of  both.  We  might  find  out 
that  way." 

"Oh,  there's  a  shorter  way  than  that,"  she  said. 

"What?" 

"To  ask  him." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  again.     "Yes.  .  .  ." 

And  then  I  took  her  entirely  off  her  guard.  Outside  the 
pink  had  turned  to  peach,  and  the  amber  star  had  become 
a  diamond.  Suddenly,  as  they  do,  the  trout  had  ceased  to 
rise,  and  a  single  short  squawk  came  from  the  moorhens' 
nest.  I  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

"Julia,"  I  said  without  warning,  "would  you  marry  him?" 

She  might  not  have  heard.  I  thought  she  was  never  go- 
ing to  reply.  She  drew  the  shawl  a  little  more  closely 
about  her  shoulders,  and  I  crossed  the  room  and  closed  the 
windows.  Then  I  returned  to  my  place  in  front  of  her. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"I  suppose  you  may  ask  that,"  she  said.  "The  answer  is 
—Yes." 

"You've  considered  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Everything  it  would  mean  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  think  you've — the  right?" 

She  stared  at  me.     "The  right?" 

"Yes,  the  right.  Look  at  it  this  way.  There's  no  doubt 
at  all  about  one  thing;  he  isn't  the  same  man  to-day,  or  at 
any  rate  he  isn't  in  the  same  mood,  that  he  was  two  days 
ago.  He  may  be  just  deliberately  putting  his  work  aside 
for  a  day,  or — he  may  be  the  other  thing.  He  may  be  going 
on  with  his  book  on  Monday  morning — or  he  may  be  quite 
past  it  already.  It  makes  a  good  deal  of  difference  to  you 
which  of  these  two  men  he  is." 

"It  makes  no  difference." 

"Oh  yes  it  does.  In  the  one  case  you'd  be  simply  his 
secretary,  and  things  would  be  more  or  less  as  they  were 
before.  But  for  the  other  he  wouldn't  want  a  secretary. 


146  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

That  mad  book  would  be  all  over  and  done  with.  You 
saw  him  as  he  was  to-day:  one  quick  brilliant  impression 
after  another.  That  man  might  write  a  few  vivid  short 
stories,  but  never  that  appalling  book.  .  .  .  Look  here, 
Julia,  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you,  because  the  whole  idea  gives 
me  a  shudder ;  but  this  is  the  way  he  explained  it  himself." 

And  without  any  more  ado  I  told  her  of  his  demonstra- 
tion with  the  electric  torch  and  of  my  own  additions  thereto. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  much,  that  woman.  I  had  almost 
written  that  she  took  it  perfectly  calmly,  but  that  was 
just  what  she  did  not  do.  But  it  was  no  fear  of  immensity 
and  the  blackness  of  Infinity  that  she  showed.  Rather  she 
seemed  to  see  an  opportunity  to  be  snatched  at.  That  face 
that  I  have  likened  to  the  ivory  of  a  lamp  betrayed  the  soft 
radiance  that  she  tried  to,  but  could  not  hide. 

"Yes,  that  gives  it,"  she  breathed. 

"So  you  see  what  I  mean  by  'having  the  right.'  You'd  be 
there,  the  nearest,  the  brightest,  vivider  than  everything  else. 
.  .  .  Have  you  the  right  ?" 

She  laughed  softly.  "You  mean  I'm  a  baby-snatcher?" 
she  said. 

I  did  not  reply. 

For  that  was  about  the  size  of  it.  Did  he  remain  in  that 
mood,  there  she  would  be  in  the  punt  with  him,  or  holding 
iron  rods  for  him  as  he  set  out  the  plan  of  the  incinerator, 
or  hunting  with  him  for  the  kingfishers'  nest,  or  watching 
him  as  he  bathed  with  to-morrow's  batch  of  boys.  He 
would  blow  little  boats  of  willow-leaves  to  her,  bring  water- 
blossoms  gliding  into  her  hand.  To-morrow  evening  they 
would  watch  that  amber  star  together,  stroll  along  my  wind- 
ing paths  as  the  glow-worms  came  out.  That  was  to  be  her 
theft — to  press  herself  home  in  the  glamorous  irresistible 
moment,  let  what  would  afterwards  befall.  My  modest  lit- 
tle estate  was  to  be  her  antechamber  to  paradise,  and  un- 
wittingly I  had  set  open  the  gates  of  it  for  her  myself. 

And  she  was  laughing  at  me  for  it — openly  laughing  at  me. 

"Well — the  portrait  for  the  Lyonnesse  Club's  getting 
along  very  nicely,  George,"  she  laughed. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  147 

"Dear,  dear  Julia "  I  began. 

"That  earnest  expression's  rather  good.  What  a  pity  I 
didn't  bring  my  painting-tools — we  might  have  got  a  good 
day's  work  done  to-morrow." 

"My  dear " 

Then,  suddenly,  "How  long  have  you  actually  known 
Derry,  George?"  she  demanded. 

"About  fifteen  years." 

"Not  longer?  Then  you  don't  know  what's  coming 
next?" 

I  don't  like  to  be  smiled  at  as  she  was  smiling.  I  jumped 
up. 

"Yes  I  do,"  I  said  with  a  flush.  "What's  coming  next  is 
that  you're  not  going  to  do  this.  You're  going  to  promise 
me  not  to.  Be  his  secretary,  his  nurse,  his  housekeeper, 
anything  else  you  like,  but  you're  not  to  do  this.  It  it's 
nothing  else  it's " 

"Taking  a  mean  advantage,  you  mean?"  she  supplied  the 
words  for  me.  "But  he  never  did  know  anything  about 
women.  Why  shouldn't  he  learn,  poor  dear?" 

"Julia,  you  can't  have  thought !  A  man  without  an  age ! 
A  man,  except  for  you  and  me,  without  even  a  name  a  week 
together!  A  man  who  says  of  himself  that  he's  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  a  ghost  haunting  anybody  who  happens 
to  know  anything  about  him !  .  .  .  Anyway  you  shan't." 

"Shan't  I,  George?"  she  asked  with  a  long  deep  look  into 
my  eyes. 

"That  you  shall  not." 

She  too  rose  and  stood  before  me,  one  elbow  on  the  man- 
telpiece. She  drew  up  the  walking-skirt  an  inch  or  two  and 
pushed  at  a  log  with  her  foot. 

"Of  course  it  isn't  as  if  you  and  I  could  ever  •  quarrel, 
George,"  she  said.  "There,  I'm  burning  your  sister's  slip- 
per. I  say  we  can't  quarrel,  because  we're  ever  so  far  be- 
yond that.  Therefore  we  can  talk  quite  plainly  about  any- 
thing on  earth,  or  under  it,  or  above  it.  So  now  tell  me  why 
I  mustn't  marry  Derry." 

I  thought  of  the  man  upstairs,  of  the  spirit-kettle  on  his 


148  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

table,  of  why  he  must  be  alone  when  he  woke  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

"There  are  physical  reasons,  if  there  weren't  any  others." 

"Of  course.  He'll  get  younger.  He'll  be  sixteen.  Well, 
I  can  be  his  mother  then.  But  I  shall  have  been  his  wife." 

"For  how  long?" 

She  lifted  her  beautiful  shoulders.  "What  does  that  mat- 
ter? I  said  his  wife.  Does  any  bride  on  her  wedding-day 
ask  herself  how  long  it's  for?  There  have  been  widows 
who've  never  even  taken  breakfast  with  their  husbands." 

"But  they  married  men  like  other  men." 

"Pooh !  Tell  that  to  any  woman  in  love !  They're  all 
Derrys  as  long  as  it  lasts,  and  he's  Derry  as  long  as  it  lasts." 

"But  his  memory?" 

"We  don't  know  that  anything's  the  matter  with  it.  Really 
you're  very  hard  to  please,  George.  First  you  complain  that 
he's  got  too  much  memory  and  he's  writing  what  you  call  a 
wicked  book  with  it.  Now  you  seem  afraid  he  hasn't 
enough  to  get  married  with.  If  he's  happier  without  a 
memory  at  all,  what's  the  odds?" 

"But  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I  can  look  after  myself — now!  And  anyway  you 
needn't  worry  about  my  memory !" 

Yet  that  was  wrhat  I  was  worrying  about.  How  gorgeous- 
ly she  had  enriched  her  memories  that  very  day  I  had  seen 
for  myself.  Openly  she  exulted  in  her  treasures.  But 
what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  all  ?  By  marriage  did  she  mean 
one  last  wild  lovely  memory  more  and  after  that — nothing? 
If  so,  was  ever  degree  so  inconceivably  prohibited?  A 
dark-haired  child  in  the  wrong  seat  in  a  village  church — a 
few  odd  hours  in  the  country  that  it  might  have  been  a 
mercy  to  spare  her — that  day  in  my  own  house  and  grounds 
— to-morrow  with  whatever  it  might  bring — perhaps  an- 
other day  or  two  unless  he  overtook  another  milestone  before 
then  .  .  .  and  then  the  relative  and  inevitable  sequence: 
his  bride,  his  elder  sister,  his  mother,  aunt,  elderly 
adviser  and  friend,  and  so  on  to  the  close.  This  was  the 
prospect  she  was  deliberately  embracing.  Here  she  espied 
her  joy.  .  .  . 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  149 

And  should  there  be  a  child?  .  .  . 

She  had  sat  down  again.  That  appearance  of  a  quarrel 
between  two  people  who  could  never  quarrel  was  at  an  end. 
I  lifted  the  logs,  arranged  her  shawl  again,  and  then  also 
sat  down.  Mrs  Moxon  brought  in  a  tray,  with  hot  milk 
and  biscuits  for  her  and  whisky  for  myself.  She  set  a 
small  table  between  us.  Julia's  slender  fingers  played  as  it 
were  a  tune  as  she  moved  the  too-hot  glass  from  one  posi- 
tion to  another.  Mrs  Moxon  gave  a  final  glance  round, 
wished  us  good  night,  and  went  out  again.  I  mixed  my- 
self a  peg,  and  then  turned  to  Julia. 

"I  think  you  were  going  to  tell  me,  when  I  interrupted 
you,  what  happened  before  I  knew  Derry,"  I  said. 

Little  pistol-like  cracks  began  to  break  from  the  green- 
oak  logs  I  had  moved.  A  thin  pouring  of  amethyst 
streamed  up  the  chimney-back,  and  the  heart  of  the  fire 
was  intense  pink  and  salmon.  The  glow  from  the  ceiling 
made  semi-transparent  the  rich  shadows  of  the  farther  re- 
cesses of  the  room.  It  was  true  that  as  against  my  fifteen 
years  she  had  known  him  for  more  than  thirty.  My  own 
personal  knowledge  of  his  history  was  now  on  the  point  of 
failing.  Only  to  her  could  I  look  for  an  anticipation  of 
what  might  next  be  expected. 

"Yes,"  she  said  musingly.  "Anyway  I'm  prepared  for 
it" 

"What  was  it?" 

"You  don't  know?" 

"Only  in  a  general  way  that  at  some  time  or  other  he 
must  have  travelled  a  good  deal." 

She  nodded.  "That's  it.  His  Wanderjahre.  He  walked 
mostly — Italy,  Germany,  France,  racketed  about  all  over 
the  place.  Broke  hearts  wherever  he  went  too  I  expect. 
It  was  then  that  he  picked  up  his  wonderful  French." 

"Then  do  you  think  that  that  phase  is — falling  due 
again  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  How  could  she  tell?  "I 
only  had  occasional  letters  from  him  at  that  time.  Usually 


150  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

to  smuggle  him  out  some  tobacco  or  see  about  a  letter  of 
credit  or  something.  I  had  one  from  Siena,  and  one  from 
Trieste,  and  another  from  Nlmes.  .  .  .  But,"  she  added 
briskly,  "if  I  married  him  of  course  I  should  go  with  him. 
That  would  solve  everything." 

"Would  it!" 

"I  mean  if  his  appearance  changed  much.  You  say  your- 
self he  can't  stop  in  one  place  for  long.  He  can't  even  take 
an  ordinary  job.  And  you  seem  to  think  that's  a  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  marry  him.  But  to  my  mind  it's  the  very 
reason  why  I  should.  He  shan't  be  left  to  tramp  the  world 
all  alone,  poor  boy.  I'm  quite  a  good  walker." 

But  for  the  shawl  round  her  shoulders,  the  glass  of  hot 
milk  and  my  sister's  slippers,  she  seemed  ready  to  start 
immediately. 

"Julia,  are  you  well  off?"  I  suddenly  asked  her. 

She  smiled.  "The  sooner  I'm  paid  for  that  portrait  of 
you  the  better,  George,"  she  said. 

"Because,"  I  continued,  "his  royalties  won't  keep  his 
boots  soled,  and  as  for  that  mad  idea  of  fighting  Carpen- 
tier " 

She  made  an  indifferent  gesture  within  the  shawl  and 
sipped  her  milk. 

"And  now,"  I  pursued  her,  "I  want  you  to  notice  how 
you've  changed  your  mind  this  last  half-hour  or  so.  As 
you  sit  there  now  you  haven't  the  least  intention  of  becom- 
ing his  secretary.  In  fact  you're  calmly  planning  how  you 
can  murder  that  book  of  his." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  George?" 

"You  are.  Remember  the  flash-lamp.  He  wants  to  light 
up  his  time-scale  from  sixteen  to  forty  or  thereabouts.  You 
want  it  like  a  burning-glass,  all  concentrated  in  one  bril- 
liant spot — yourself.  In  other  words  you're  planning  a 
mental  assault  on  him." 

She  laughed  delightedly.  "Before  committing  a  physical 
one?  George,  you  shock  me!  I  hope  you're  not  going  to 
lock  me  into  my  room !" 

"Further  than  that.    You  don't  intend  to  lose  a  moment 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  151 

of  time,  because  those  Wander jahre  may  be  drawing  very 
near." 

Her  mouth  was  prim.    "It's  a  difficult  position,  George." 

"Do  you  intend  to  ask  him  outright  to  marry  you  ?" 

"It's  a  very  difficult  position,"  she  repeated  demurely. 
"Suppose  he  accepted  me  one  day  and  forgot  all  about  it 
the  next.  I  should  have  to  propose  to  him  daily,  shouldn't 
I?" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  joke  about  it." 

Her  daring  eyes  positively  fondled  my  face.  She  showed 
all  her  teeth  in  a  wide  smile. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked.  "What  else  is  there  to  do? 
You  wouldn't  have  me  take  it  seriously,  would  you  ?  How 
can  it  be  taken  seriously  ?" 

And  she  added,  stretching  her  long  hands  to  the  fire, 
"Why,  it  would  be  the  least  serious  marriage  there  ever 
was !" 

Ill 

By  breakfast-time  the  next  morning  I  had  taken  a  re- 
solve. I  had  slept  little  for  thinking  of  it.  I  intended,  if 
I  could,  to  make  Derry  talk  about  his  book. 

For  while  I  abhorred  the  very  idea  of  that  book,  there 
was  one  thing  I  abhorred  more.  This  was  the  thought  of 
the  collapse  of  his  memory.  If  anything  happened  to  that 
the  situation  was  horribly  simple.  A  man  who,  from  hav- 
ing had  two  memories,  passes  to  not  having  one  at  all,  is — 
gently  but  without  any  further  pother — locked  up.  And 
had  that  been  the  end  of  it  I  don't  think  I  should  have  had 
the  heart  to  write  Derry's  tale. 

He  came  down,  shaven,  radiant,  hungry.  I  had  heard 
his  plunge  into  the  lake  three  quarters  of  an  hour  before. 
Julia  too  was  fresh  as  the  dew,  and  ate  heartily.  So,  over 
coffee  and  kidneys  and  bacon,  with  such  offhandedness  as 
I  could  assume,  I  asked  him  point-blank  how  his  book  was 
getting  on. 


152  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

A  wave  of  thankfulness  passed  over  me  at  his  very  first 
words. 

"I  say,  George,"  he  protested,  "this  is  a  holiday,  you  know. 
Must  we  talk  shop?  By  sheer  strength  of  will  I've  put  it 
all  on  one  side  for  a  couple  of  days,  and  here  you  are  trying 
to  shove  my  nose  back  on  to  the  grindstone  again!  Bit  of 
a  nigger-driver  you  are.  .  .  .  Well,  just  for  the  length  of 
one  pipe;  after  that  shop's  taboo  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 
What  is  it  you  want  to  know  about  it ?" 

"Oh,  just  how  it's  shaping." 

He  told  me.  His  account  of  it  as  far  as  it  had  gone, 
his  projection  of  the  continuing  portion,  were  perfectly 
lucid,  reasoned,  logical.  He  brought  all  his  faculties  to 
bear,  was  completely  master  of  himself.  His  memory  was 
as  clear  in  both  directions  as  it  had  been.  I  tested  this 
by  means  of  one  or  two  questions  that  otherwise  are  of 
no  importance  here.  All  was  well.  My  most  dreaded  fear 
was  removed.  Indeed  it  was  I  who,  at  the  end  of  our  pipe, 
had  to  change  the  subject. 

One  awkward,  rather  shamefaced  explanation,  however, 
he  did  make.  This  was  both  to  Julia  and  to  myself. 

"I  ought  to  say  one  thing  while  I'm  about  it,"  he  said 
in  a  halting  and  embarrassed  voice.  "I  got  your  note,  Julia. 
I  know  what  you  mean.  How  you  tumbled  to  it  I  don't 
know,  and  I  needn't  say  it's  an  unspeakable  com- 
fort having  the  two  of  you.  I'm  not  going  to  look  a  gift- 
horse  like  that  in  the  mouth,  so  if  you  don't  mind  we  won't 
talk  about  it.  I  suppose  George  told  you,  though  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  that's  all  right.  Of  course  he  won't  tell  anybody 
else.  If  he'd  asked  me  first  I  might  have  kicked  a  bit, 
but  it's  turned  out  all  right,  so  that's  all  we  need  worry 
about.  .  .  .  Now  what  are  we  going  to  do  to-day  ?  Those 
trout  at  all  muddy,  George?  Give  me  a  mayfly  and  let's 
have  a  try  at  one  of  'em 

I  got  him  a  rod  and  warned  him  against  the  telephone- 
wire  that  has  to  cross  one  end  of  the  pond.  I  left  him 
and  Julia  mounting  the  cast  on  the  verandah. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


153 


I  went  up  to  my  study.  I  went  there  from  a  motive  not 
unlike  gratitude  to  God.  An  embodied  ghost  Derry  might 
be  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  our  little  private  triumvirate 
had  still  a  normal  basis.  He  understood  the  whole  situa- 
tion, and  so  to  us  was  no  ghost.  Nor  was  even  the  prospect 
of  his  Wanderjahre  now  quite  so  intimidating.  The  terror 
would  have  been  to  think  of  him  as  an  ignis  fatuus,  uncon- 
scious of  himself,  flitting  hither  and  thither  over  the  face 
of  the  Continent  at  large.  Cogito,  ergo  sum.  The  distance 
of  the  lamp  from  the  table's  edge  was  apparently  not  an 
irrevocably  fixed  factor.  "By  sheer  strength  of  will"  he 
had  been  able  to  vary  it.  He  could  enjoy  intensely  and 
reason  infallibly,  if  not  at  one  and  the  same  time,  at  any 
rate  by  turns.  He  was  still  capable  of  work  and  of  play, 
and  at  the  maximum  of  either. 

How,  then,  did  she  stand  with  her  wild  scheme  of  marry- 
ing him? 

I  sat  down  at  my  table  and  worked  it  out  thus : 


While  he  was  in  his  working 
mood  he  was  inaccessible  to 
her. 

As  his  secretary  she  could  not 
hope  for  more  than  a  repe- 
tition of  her  former  experi- 
ence. 

His  work  occupied  by  far  the 
greater  portion  of  his  time. 

Therefore  his  work  must  be 
discouraged. 

I  had  done  her  a  disservice. 


His  Wanderjahre  would  pres- 
ently be  upon  him  again. 


But  while  he  was  at  play  his 
accessibility  was  a  raised 
power. 

But  as  his  playmate  she  met 
him  on  his  return  journey — 
he  as  he  had  been,  but  she 
far  more  rusee  and  resolved. 

Therefore  his  work  stood  in 
her  way. 

But  I  had  encouraged  him  to 
speak  of  it. 

But  they  were  at  play  at  this 
moment,  setting  up  a  fish- 
ing-rod on  the  verandah. 

She  knew  this,  and  would 
lose  no  time. 


154  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  think  that  states  it  fairly. 

And  she  had  the  whole  day  and  the  whole  of  to-morrow 
before  her. 

I  began  to  wonder  whether  I  had  done  wisely  in  asking 
them  to  stay  after  all. 

But  perhaps  I  was  troubling  myself  unnecessarily  about 
this  moonshine-marriage  after  all.  What  about  him?  He 
at  least  would  see  the  monstrous  anomaly  and  would  never 
allow  it.  He  at  any  rate  knew  that  if  there  was  one  place 
on  earth  where  no  woman  must  come  it  was  intovhis  room 
between  evening  and  dawn.  Things  far  too  terrifying  and 
precise  happened  during  those  hours.  He  knew  this,  and 
five  minutes  between  him  and  myself  would  settle  Julia's 
business  once  for  all. 

But  again  I  saw  in  a  flash  where  I  was  wrong.  Five 
minutes  between  him  and  myself?  It  couldn't  be  done. 
Why?  For  the  simple  reason  that,  in  order  to  talk  to  me 
at  all  on  such  a  matter,  he  would  have  to  be  in  his  aware 
and  "working"  mood — the  very  mood  in  which  he  had 
always  been  inaccessible  to  her.  My  answer  would  be 
a  stare  from  those  steady  grey-blue  eyes.  "Marry  Julia!" 
he  would  exclaim.  "My  dear  chap,  what  on  earth  are  you 
talking  about?  If  I'd  ever  dreamed  of  marrying  Julia 
shouldn't  I  have  done  it  years  ago  ?  It's  the  very  last  thing 
in  the  world  I  ever  thought  of !"  That  would  be  his  reply 
to  me.  I  should  be  warning  him  against  a  contingency 
he  had  never  for  a  moment  entertained. 

And  yet — for  even  that  was  not  the  end  of  it — it  was 
perfectly  possible  that  with  that  word  "Preposterous !"  still 
on  his  lips  he  might  go  straight  to  her,  hand  her  into  the 
punt,  once  more  alter  his  focus  of  intelligence,  and  be  under 
her  spell  again  before  they  were  half-way  across  the 
pond.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  I  heard  his  call  below:  "Quick,  Julia,  the  net 
— I've  got  him  on !"  I  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony  to 
watch.  It  was  one  of  the  three-pounders,  making  a  good 
fight  for  it.  But  he  had  little  chance  against  my  green- 
heart  in  Berry's  hand.  Three  minutes  settled  it.  There 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  155 

he  lay  on  the  bank,  with  Derry  and  Julia  bending  over  him. 
I  think  she  thought  him  a  lucky  fish  to  have  been  caught 
by  Derry.  I  descended  and  joined  them. 

"Going  to  try  for  another?"  I  asked  him.  But  already 
he  was  taking  down  the  rod. 

"No,  we  thought  of  doing  a  bit  of  crosscut  sawing  for 
a  change." 

"Not  the  incinerator?"  I  hinted  with  a  glance  at  Julia. 

"Ah  yes,  I'd  forgotten  about  the  incinerator,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Which  shall  we  do,  Julia  ?  Walk  on  to  the  black- 
smith's or  do  the  sawing?  The  sawing  I  think;  it'll  take 
some  time  to  cut  the  rods,  and  we  can  send  a  lad  with  the 
sizes  and  fetch  them  after  lunch.  Do  the  boys  come  to 
bathe  on  Saturdays,  George?" 

"They  do,"  I  said  with  another  glance  at  her. 

I  saw  the  little  mutinous  dip  of  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

I  am  not  going  to  take  you  in  detail  through  the  whole 
of  that  day.  For  half  the  afternoon  they  disappeared ;  they 
had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the  neighbouring  woods;  but  they 
were  back  in  time  for  the  bathing-parade.  Again  Derry 
swam,  with  the  boys,  while  I  lay  with  Julia  in  the  punt. 

We  occupied  opposite  ends  of  it,  and  hardly  spoke.  The 
commotion  made  by  the  swimmers  was  almost  spent  by 
the  time  it  reached  our  end  of  the  pond,  and  we  moved 
almost  imperceptibly  under  the  oaks,  with  now  a  soft  touch 
on  the  bank,  then  a  little  way  out,  and  then  the  glide 
to  the  bank  again.  A  sort  of  amicable  hostility  seemed 
to  have  settled  between  us.  It  seemed  to  be  understood 
that  she  would  do  what  she  would  do,  and  I  should  prevent 
it  if  I  could.  I  could  see  the  soles  of  her  walking-shoes 
and  her  worsted-clad  ankles  as  I  lay,  and  I  mused  on  the 
contrasts  in  her.  She  was  ready  to  be  off  with  him  any- 
where, anyhow;  but  the  evening  before  she  had  been  glad 
of  a  glass  of  hot  milk  and  a  fire  to  warm  her  hands  at. 
She  might,  as  she  said,  be  a  good  walker,  but  she  had  drawn 
my  sister's  shawl  closely  enough  about  her  shoulders  to 
keep  out  the  night  air.  She  was  a  young  forty,  yet  some- 
how hardly  young  enough  to  traipse  houseless  after  him 


156  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

wherever  his  whim  might  lead  him.  She  was  not  alto- 
gether irresponsible,  and  yet  she  contemplated  "the  least 
serious  marriage  there  ever  was." 

The  punt  rocked  as  she  suddenly  sat  half  up.  "Are  you 
asleep,  George?" 

"No." 

"I  nearly  was.  I  can't  imagine  why  you  ever  come  to 
London  when  you've  a  place  like  this  to  bask  in.  How  do 
you  manage  to  get  any  work  done?" 

"I  can't  say  I  am  doing  a  great  deal  at  present." 

"Now  that's  the  first  inhospitable  thing  you've  said. 
Which  is  your  study — the  end  room  there?"  She  glanced 
up  at  the  balcony. 

"Yes." 

"Don't  you  ever  sleep  out?" 

"No.  My  room's  at  the  back,  and  it's  two  wide-open 
windows." 

"I  love  the  ramblers  up  the  pillars !  May  I  have  some  to 
take  back?" 

"Mais  naturellewent." 

"Ah,  but  you  can't  stay  that  like  Derry,  George ' 

"I  can't  do  anything  like  Derry.  On  the  whole  I'm  not 
sure  that  I  want  to." 

"You  don't  believe  that  sometimes  one  single  hour  may 
be  worth  all  the  rest  of  life  put  together?" 

"I  suppose  I'm  the  other  kind  of  man." 

"Ah  well!"  She  stretched  herself  luxuriously.  "I  used 
to  think  as  you  do.  But  I've  learned  a  lot  since  then.  An 
awful  lot." 

"  'Awful's'  perhaps  the  word." 

"But  lovely.  Anyway  who  cares  ?  What  does  it  matter  ? 
WTiat  does  anything  matter  ?  (Oh,  look  at  his  dive!)  Noth- 
ing matters,  George — nothing.  I  dare  you  to  say  it  does." 

"It  might  be  difficult  to  run  the  world  on  those  lines." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  in  a  pretty  ghastly  muddle  as 
it  is.  Do  you  know,  I've  made  a  discovery  about  that, 
George." 

"Really?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  157 

"It's  this:  That  we  make  the  mistake  of  regarding  the 
world  as  full  of  rational  people,  with  perhaps  a  few  par- 
ticularly stupid  ones  here  and  there.  Now  if  you'll  only 
regard  it  as  full  of  perfect  zenies,  with  just  once  in  a  while 
a  reasonable  being  among  them,  that  would  explain  every- 
thing." 

"You'd  better  go  to  sleep  again,  Julia." 

"But  it  is  so.  I  see  it,  oh  so  clearly!  And  you  don't 
worry  about  anything  then — what  anybody  thinks  or  says 
or  does  or  anything.  You  just  take  the  funny  old  peepshow 
as  it  is.  That's  the  way  to  live." 

"On  an  endless  walking-tour?" 

"Why  not,  if  you're  in  jolly  places  all  the  time?" 

"Siena?    Nimes?    Trieste?" 

"Literal  George!  .  .  .  But  really,  nothing  matters. 
Everything  except  the  present  moment  is  meant  to  be  for- 
gotten. It's  the  only  one  you  live  in.  In  the  past  you're 
dead  and  in  the  future  you  aren't  born  yet — except  him. 
.  .  .  George " 

"Hm?" 

"Girls  nowadays  do  have  an  awfully  easy  time!  .  .  . 
You've  only  got  to  look  at  their  clothes.  We  dressed  down  to 
our  toes  and  up  to  our  ears,  and  that  meant  we  had  to  take  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  about  things.  We  had  to  make  a  little 
go  a  long  way,  so  to  speak — talk,  and  smile,  and  be  amusing, 
and  think  what  we  said.  If  we  didn't  we  were  soon  left 
out  in  the  cold.  But  girls  nowadays  simply  powder  their 
shoulder  blades  and  dress  to  their  knees  more  or  less,  and 
that's  all.  Lots  of  'em  never  open  their  mouths  except  to 
eat.  They  don't  do  anything;  they  get  there  by  wwdoing 
something.  .  .  .  But  how  boring  for  you,  George.  What 
does  it  matter  as  long  as  you  do  get  there?" 

"I  hope  you'll  think  twice  before  you  commit  a  very 
great  folly,"  I  said. 

She  laughed.  "No,  no.  I've  finished  thinking.  It  was 
one  of  my  mother's  maxims:  'Take  care  of  your  health 
and  don't  ever  give  way  to  serious  thinking.'  Don't  you 
think  it's  rather  good?" 


158  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"I  agree  as  far  as  your  health's  concerned." 

"Oh,  the  other  too.  She  was  a  wise  woman.  I've  only 
lately  begun  to  realise  how  wise.  .  .  .  Ah,  they're  going 
in.  Come  along." 

She  stood  up  in  the  punt  to  see  whether  Derry  appeared 
on  the  balcony  on  his  way  to  dress. 

At  teatime  I  had  a  caller,  a  gentle  old  friend  and  neighbour 
of  mine,  Mrs  Truscott.  I  saw  her  old-fashioned  victoria 
standing  in  the  drive  as  we  reached  the  terrace.  Derry 
was  charming  to  the  old  lady;  Julia — also  charming,  but 
with  some  subtle  difference  that  I  cannot  explain.  After 
tea  Derry  and  Julia  strolled  off  to  see  whether  the  rods 
had  come  from  the  blacksmith's  yet,  but  they  stopped  to 
examine  the  victoria  on  the  way.  Mrs  Truscott  turned  to 
me. 

"What  an  exceedingly  handsome  man!  But  surely  she's 
a  good  deal  older  than  he  ?" 

"Why  do  you  couple  them  like  that?"  I  asked. 

"Aren't  they  engaged?" 

"No." 

She  smiled.    "Not  yet?" 

"Nor  likely  to  be,"  I  risked. 

She  shook  her  head,  so  that  her  grey  curls  trembled 
about  her  cheeks. 

"Ah,  you  bachelors,  Sir  George !  All  sorts  of  things  hap- 
pen under  your  noses  that  you  don't  see !" 

"I  don't  think  anything's  happening  here.  They've  simply 
been  friends  since  they  were  boy  and  girl  together." 

"That's  a  handicap,  I  admit,"  she  replied.  "Perhaps  the 
worst  a  woman  has  to  put  up  with.  But  occasionally  things 
happen  in  spite  of  it." 

"I  really  think  you're  mistaken  this  time,  Mrs  Truscott." 

"Well,  well,  well,  well.  .  .  .  And  are  you  writing  us  an- 
other of  your  charming  books?" 

It  passed  at  that,  but  it  left  me  with  an  uneasy  feeling. 
These  old  ladies  are  so  very  acute. 

Nothing  remarkable  happened  at  dinner,  except  a  curi- 
ous little  covert  duel  between  Julia  and  myself  when  I 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  159 

once  more  tried  to  draw  out  Derry  to  talk  about  his  book. 
I  am  afraid  that  she  won  and  I  failed.  Good-temperedly 
but  flatly  he  refused  to  discuss  it;  he  wanted  to  look  at 
my  Hogarths  instead.  So  I  drew  the  large  folio-stand  up 
in  front  of  the  drawing-room  fire,  arranged  the  lights  and 
we  turned  over  the  prints.  He  seemed  very  much  less 
drowsy;  indeed  it  was  half-past  nine  before  he  spoke  of 
going  to  bed;  and  as  in  the  country  that  is  not  an  unrea- 
sonably early  hour,  and  since  moreover  Julia  had  sat  up 
late  the  night  before,  I  was  not  surprised  when  she  also 
said  that  she  would  retire  early.  He  went  first,  but  she  was 
not  long  after  him.  I  was  therefore  left  either  to  sit  over 
my  fire  alone,  or  to  follow  them,  which  ever  I  liked  best. 

I  went  my  nightly  round,  of  window-fastenings  and  so 
forth ;  for  although  Mrs  Moxon  has  always  been  round 
before  me,  it  is  my  house,  and  there  would  be  small  satisfac- 
tion in  scolding  her  were  anything  to  happen.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I  had  that  night  to  reopen  the  side  door,  for  it  had 
occurred  to  me  that  the  driver  of  Mrs  Truscott's  victoria, 
who  was  almost  as  old  as  herself,  had  the  bad  habit  of  leav- 
ing the  drive-gate  open.  Accordingly  I  walked  up  the  drive, 
saw  that  the  gate  was  properly  fastened,  and  then  stood  for 
a  moment  enjoying  the  cool  air. 

It  was  a  full  and  late-rising  moon,  and  only  the  faintest 
hint  of  yellow  yet  lighted  the  trunks  of  the  plantation  be- 
hind the  house.  The  overflow  from  the  lake,  which  I  never 
heard  in  the  daytime,  sounded  loudly.  The  evening  star  had 
set;  the  others  were  exceedingly  tiny,  pale  and  remote;  in 
another  hour  or  so  they  would  be  almost  extinguished  in  the 
moon's  effulgence.  A  glow-worm  burned  stilly,  lighting  up 
the  whole  leaf  as  a  ship's  sidelight  lights  up  its  painted  box. 
Through  a  gleam  from  the  house  a  bat  flickered.  I  stood 
for  several  minutes ;  then  I  turned,  went  in,  locked  up,  and 
ascended  to  my  bedroom. 

This  room,  I  should  explain,  is  at  the  back  of  the  house 
and  does  not  overlook  the  pond.  This  is  in  some  ways  a 
drawback,  but  it  has  its  advantages.  By  foregoing  the 
amenity  of  sleeping  in  one  of  the  rooms  with  the  pleasantest 


160  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

view  I  was  able  to  have  a  practically  self-contained  suite  all 
to  myself — study  in  front,  and  dressing-room,  bathroom  and 
bedroom  all  communicating.  My  books  alone  run  into  all 
three  rooms,  and  are  thus  kept  together ;  and  the  rest  of  the 
upper  floor  is  left  for  my  guests  and  servants.  Derry's  room 
was  the  one  next  to  my  study.  Julia's,  like  my  own,  was  at 
the  back.  I  had  put  her  there  partly  because  of  the  second 
bathroom,  and  partly  because  Mrs  Moxon  would  be  within 
call  had  she  need  of  anything. 

All  was  quiet  as  I  entered  the  room.  I  switched  on  my 
bedside  light,  undressed,  and  got  into  bed.  But  I  was  not 
very  sleepy,  so  I  got  out  again,  reached  down  a  book  at  ran- 
dom, punched  my  pillow  into  position  and  began  to  read. 

I  was  not  very  lucky  in  my  book,  however,  and  my  atten- 
tion wandered.  From  wondering  what  was  wrong  with  my 
author  I  passed  away  from  him  altogether,  and  presently 
found  myself  spinning,  as  it  were,  fantasias  on  life  in 
human  terms.  And  as  I  continued  to  do  this  these  fantasias 
began  to  accrete  more  and  more  about  the  figure  o>f  Derwent 
Rose. 

What  a  history  had  unfolded  since  that  afternoon  when 
I  had  found  him  in  the  Lyonnesse  Club,  gazing  at  his  image 
in  the  glass  of  a  framed  print  on  the  Avail !  Hitherto  I  had 
contemplated  that  unfolding  only  a  portion  at  a  time.  I  had 
typified  him  as  it  were  in  terms  of  his  books,  had  seen  the 
man  who  had  written  The  Hands  of  Esau  give  way  to  him 
who  had  written  An  Ape  in  Hell,  and  this  one  in  turn  to  the 
author  of  The  Vicarage  of  Bray.  I  had  taken  him  phase  by 
phase;  I  was  not  yet  sure  of  a  single  unit  of  the  repeating- 
pattern  of  his  backward  life.  But  these  books  were  not 
merely  his  three  principal  books.  They  were  his  only  books 
of  any  importance.  All  prior  to  the  Vicarage  had  been  ex- 
perimental, fragmentary,  partial — as  indeed  all  he  had  ever 
done  was  fragmentary  and  partial  by  the  side  of  the  huge 
and  desperate  work  he  now  contemplated.  Therefore  we 
were  at  the  end  of  measurement  by  books.  The  rest  was 
in  Julia  Oliphant's  possession.  She  was  now  his  sole  au- 
thentic companion,  and  soon  she  would  have  shouldered  even 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  161 

me  completely  out  of  his  life,  and  would  go  forward — back- 
ward— with  him  alone. 

My  thoughts  passed  to  her.  What  a  history  for  her  too 
since  that  afternoon  when  I  had  taken  her  hands  in  mine, 
had  asked  her  a  question,  and  had  had  her  matter-of-fact 
reply,  "Of  course;  all  my  life;  but  it  never  made  any  differ- 
ence to  him."  Now  it  was  to  make  a  difference  to  him. 
Though  he  presently  eluded  her  never  so  swiftly  down  the 
slippery  years,  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
worth  it.  And,  for  a  few  weeks,  a  few  hours  yet,  I  had  to 
admit  that  they  were  not  ill-matched.  Mrs  Truscott  had 
thought  that  she  was  older  than  he,  but  had  none  the  less 
assumed  them  to  be  lovers.  He,  of  course,  had  sunk  into  a 
vast  of  sleep  an  hour  ago,  but  I  wondered  whether  she  was 
at  that  moment  lying  awake,  scheming,  contriving,  making 
sure.  .  .  . 

Then,  tired  of  thought,  I  switched  off  my  lamp  and  closed 
my  eyes. 

The  rather  secluded  situation  of  my  house  has  its  reaction 
on  the  quality  of  my  sleep.  I  don't  mean  that  I  don't  ordi- 
narily sleep  perfectly  soundly  and  naturally,  but  the  routine 
of  locking  up  for  the  night  sets,  as  it  were,  a  timepiece  in  my 
head.  The  running  of  the  lake,  the  night-sounds  of  animals 
and  birds,  the  creaking  of  a  bough,  the  motion  of  a  window- 
blind  in  the  wind — these  are  every-night  sounds  to  which  I 
have  grown  accustomed ;  but  any  unusual  sound  will  bring 
me  wide  awake  in  a  moment.  Robbery  in  the  neighbour- 
hood is  not  entirely  unknown. 

I  had  slept  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  hours  when  I  was  thus 
brought  suddenly  awake. 

The  moon  was  high  over  the  plantation ;  it  slanted  whitely 
across  my  window-sash,  cut  into  relief  the  folds  of  the  case- 
ment curtains.  Outside  the  night  creatures  would  be  at  play 
or  about  their  nocturnal  employments.  But  it  was  no  owl 
nor  rabbit  that  I  had  heard.  It  had  been  the  light  crackling 
of  something  under  a  foot.  I  sat  up,  still,  listening. 

I  heard  nothing  further,  and  after  a  minute  noiselessly 
uncovered  myself  and  slipped  out  of  bed.  All  the  doors 


162  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

of  my  little  suite  stood  open,  so  that  I  had  no  handle  to 
turn  as  I  tiptoed  from  my  bedroom  into  the  dressing-room. 
Thence  I  could  look  through  the  study  to  the  balcony  be- 
yond. The  night  was  palely  brilliant;  my  eyes  could  pene- 
trate into  the  detailed  depths  of  the  oaks  across  the  pond; 
I  could  see  the  pebbles  on  the  path,  the  shadow  of  a  chim- 
ney-stack over  the  bathing-stage.  The  balcony  itself,  how- 
ever, was  a  blackness.  On  that  side  of  the  house  a  marauder 
could  easily  hide. 

I  went  back  to  the  dressing-room,  took  down  a  dark-col- 
oured gown,  put  it  on,  and  returned  through  the  study.  If 
anybody  was  lurking  about  I  wished  to  be  inconspicuous. 
I  reached  my  writing-table  and  was  about  to  step  outside 
when  again  I  heard  the  sound.  It  came,  not  from  below, 
but  from  the  balcony  itself. 

My  study  doors  are  so  arranged  that  I  can  either  hook 
them  half  back,  at  an  angle  of  forty-five,  or  entirely  so,  flush 
against  the  walls.  That  night  they  stood  at  their  fullest 
width,  so  that,  if  anybody  was  on  the  verandah,  I  had  not  to 
risk  discovering  myself  as  it  were  obliquely.  I  advanced  to 
the  hinged  edge  and  peered  cautiously  forth. 

Derry  was  not  asleep.  He  was  moving  irresolutely,  now 
a  few  steps  this  way,  now  a  few  steps  that,  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  balcony,  and  the  noise  I  had  heard  had  been  the  crack- 
ing of  a  fir-cone  or  fragment  of  bark  under  his  feet.  His 
hair  was  tumbled,  he  had  put  on  his  old  tweed  jacket,  but 
the  pyjama-suit  I  had  lent  him  was  small  for  him,  and  his 
bare  ankles  showed  above  his  heelless  slippers.  There  was 
no  light  in  his  room,  and  I  suddenly  remembered  that  that 
evening  he  had  not  shown  his  usual  anxiety  to  be  off  early 
upstairs. 

After  those  immensities  of  sleep,  was  he  now  suffering 
from  insomnia? 

I  was  about  to  step  out  to  him  when  something  within  me, 
I  really  can't  tell  you  what,  drew  me  swiftly  back  again. 
The  room  past  Berry's,  opposite  which  he  now  stood,  was 
unoccupied,  and  its  windows  were  closed  except  for  the  little 
doors  in  the  upper  panes.  But  somebody  was  undoing  a 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  163 

fastening.  I  had  seen  the  turn  of  Berry's  head  towards  me, 
and  had  withdrawn  my  own  head  only  just  in  time.  The 
sound  of  unfastening  continued. 

I  think  already  I  knew  what  I  was  going  to  see.  By  cross- 
ing the  corridor  Julia  could  enter  that  unoccupied  room, 
pass  through  it,  and  gain  the  balcony.  Indeed  (I  struggled 
to  persuade  myself)  were  she  sleepless  and  in  need  of  air 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't.  But  I  knew  that 
I  mocked  myself.  I  knew  that  not  sleeplessness  had  brought 
her  out.  Almost,  I  thought,  they  must  hear  the  thumping 
of  my  heart.  I  wondered  whether  I  dared  look  again. 

I  dared  not — yet  I  had  to 

She  had  cast  over  her  the  Burberry  she  had  brought  out 
for  the  single  day.  She  left  the  bedroom  door  open  behind 
her  and  stood  with  her  pale  hand  on  the  edge  of  it,  not 
advancing.  Slowly  his  head  lifted.  His  eyes  met  hers.  I 
think  I  could  have  stepped  bodily  out  and  he  would  not  have 
seen  me  for  the  look  he  gave  her.  It  was  hard,  fixed, 
tranced.  Still  she  did  not  move.  All  her  life  she  had 
waited  for  him ;  it  was  proper  now  that  he  should  come  to 
her. 

Very  slowly  he  lifted  his  hands 

Already  I  had  turned  away. 

For  I  had  heard  the  little  flutter  of  her  garments,  the  rush 
and  catch  of  her  breath 

Grim  King  of  the  Ghosts ! 

She  was  in  his  arms. 


IV 

The  next  morning  I  did  not  hear  his  plunge  into  the  lake. 
This  was  not  because  I  was  not  back  in  my  own  house  in 
time. 

For  I  had  not  remained  in  it.  I  had  dressed,  had  crept 
softly  downstairs,  and  had  let  myself  out,  easing  the  catch 
of  the  side-door  behind  me.  I  had  walked  to  Hindhead,  and 
from  the  edge  of  the  Punch  Bowl  had  seen  the  night  end 


164  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

and  the  day  begin.  I  had  watched  the  cloudlets  kindle  like 
plumes  of  the  wings  of  cherubim,  ineffable,  indifferent,  an- 
guishing in  that  the  eye  and  heart  ached  and  fainted  for 
more  than  they  could  endure,  gazed  and  yet  saw  not  because 
of  their  own  overbrimming.  I  had  turned  away,  weary  of 
the  heavenly  thing,  yet  had  returned  with  tears  for  more  of 
it.  I  had  cast  myself  down  with  my  face  hidden  in  the  wet 
earth.  I  had  tried  not  to  think  or  feel.  Had  it  been  possible 
I  would  have  been,  not  a  few  miles,  but  a  few  worlds  away. 
And  in  sober  fact  I  am  not  sure  that  I  was  not  worlds  away. 
In  the  thing  that  had  happened  time,  distance,  had  no  mean- 
ing. Nothing  so  mystic  in  its  very  nature  can  be  merely  a 
little  in  error;  once  it  is  not  right,  it  is  wrong  with  an  un- 
imaginable totality.  Ordinary  measurement  is  annihilated; 
in  the  very  instant  of  identity  the  last  conceivable  differences 
are  wrapped  up  together  as  in  the  vital  element  of  a  seed.  I 
am  sorry  I  cannot  make  this  plainer.  You  either  see  what 
had  happened  or  you  don't.  It  beat  and  bludgeoned  my 
spirit  as  I  lay  there,  sometimes  quivering,  sometimes  still, 
while  the  sun  had  risen  over  the  Devil's  Punch  Bowl. 

On  my  return  to  the  house  Mrs  Moxon  met  me.  She  is  an 
efficient  creature,  but  a  little  given  to  impressionistic  fancies, 
and  there  was  perplexity  in  her  face  as  I  entered  by  the  way 
I  had  left — the  side  door. 

"The  gentleman  and  lady  don't  seem  to  be  having  any 
breakfast,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you,  sir.  Mr — Mr  Rose  asked  where 
you  were,  and  then  said  perhaps  I'd  better  keep  breakfast 
back." 

"Where  are  Mr  Rose  and  Miss  Oliphant  now?" 

"They  went  off  that  way,  sir."  She  nodded  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  kitchen-garden. 

"Then  I'll  see  about  it.  Have  breakfast  ready  in  ten  min- 
utes, please." 

The  kitchen-garden  is  not  very  large,  but  it  is  a  straggling 
sort  of  place,  being,  in  fact,  the  oddments  of  ground  left 
over  when  the  tennis-court  was  made.  I  looked  for  my 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  165 

guests  among  the  dewy  canes,  but  did  not  see  them;  they 
were  not  behind  the  sweet-pea  hedge  that  made  my  lungs 
open  of  themselves  to  receive  its  fragrance.  But  they  had 
been  there,  for  I  saw  that  the  roller  on  the  court  had  been 
moved.  Its  barrel  was  wet  all  round  with  dew,  and  the 
patch  of  grass  where  it  had  stood  during  the  night  was 
dry. 

Then,  just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  calling  their  names, 
they  appeared  from  behind  the  tall  artichoke  brake. 

I  spoke  first,  ignoring  what  Mrs  Moxon  had  told  me. 

"Good  morning,"  I  called.  "Breakfast  is  just  ready.  I'm 
sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting.  Come  along." 

It  was  Derry  who  answered,  advancing  across  the  court 
towards  me. 

"Ah,  there  you  are.  I've  been  looking  for  you.  I  wanted 
to  thank  you  and  say  good-bye.  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  be 
pushing  along." 

I  acted  my  part  as  well  as  I  could.  "Pushing  along! 
What  are  you  talking  about  ?  What  train  are  you  going  by  ? 
This  is  Sunday.  Come  along  in  to  breakfast." 

"Oh,  I'd  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit  in  my  room,  thanks," 
he  said  hesitatingly.  "I  know  it's  springing  it  on  you  rather 
suddenly,  George,  but  I  really  must  be  getting  along." 

"What's  all  this  about?    Your  book?"  I  demanded. 

"Yes,  the  book.    Yes,  the  book,  George." 

"But  I  tell  you  it's  Sunday.  There  the  twelve-forty-six 
and  the  four-fifty.  You've  missed  the  eight-fifty-five." 

"I  thought  of  walking,"  he  said. 

"All  the  way  to  London  ?  That  would  take  you  two  days. 
So  it  isn't  your  book  after  all." 

"Oh,  I  meant  part  of  the  way,"  he  evaded,  fidgeting. 
"Guildford  or  Weybridge  or  somewhere." 

"And  is  Julia  going  to  walk  to  Guildford  or  Weybridge 
too  ?  Don't  be  absurd.  Come  along  to  breakfast." 

Reluctantly  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  house. 

I  say  I  acted  as  well  as  I  could ;  but  it  was  acting.  I  had 
to  act  because  I  was  afraid  to  face  the  reality.  His  haste  to 
be  off  seemed  to  make  that  reality  a  twofold  possibility.  In 


166  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

the  highly  peculiar  circumstances  it  was  not  for  me,  his  host, 
to  inquire  whether  he  scrupled  to  breakfast  or  sit  down  in 
my  house;  but  it  was  for  me,  technically  still  his  friend,  to 
wonder  why  he  had  tried  to  put  me  off  with  some  tale  about 
wanting  to  get  on  with  his  book  and,  in  his  eagerness  to  be 
gone,  proposed  to  walk  to  London.  It  might  have  been 
decency  and  delicacy.  On  the  other  hand,  he  now  experi- 
enced everything  with  the  greatest  intensity,  and  this  sudden 
and  imperious  urge  to  walk  might  have  been  the  first  faint 
thrilling  of  that  communicating  nerve  that,  traced  back,  led 
to  his  Wander jahre. 

At  Julia  I  had  not  yet  dared  to  look. 

I  made  him  eat  whether  he  wished  it  or  not ;  oh,  I  was  not 
above  using  my  advantage.  For  he  was  entirely  unaware 
that  the  cracking  of  a  fir-cone  under  his  foot  had  brought 
me  out  of  my  bed  and  to  the  door  of  my  study.  It  was  be- 
cause he  supposed  me  to  have  been  soundly  asleep  all  night 
that  I  was  able  to  compel  him  to  swallow  his  punctiliousness 
at  the  same  time  that  he  swallowed  his  trout,  coffee  and 
marmalade.  If  either  or  all  of  them  stuck  in  his  throat  there 
was  no  remedy  for  that.  ...  At  least  so  at  first  I  thought. 
But  as  breakfast  proceeded,  I  began  to  be  strangely  aware 
of  my  complete  helplessness.  Much  as  I  might  wish  it,  I 
could  not  wash  my  hands  of  him.  Once  more,  the  choice 
was  not  mine,  but  his. 

For  what  could  I  do  with  him  ?  Nothing — nothing  at  all. 
I  was  bound  hand  and  foot.  You  cannot  turn  a  two-mem- 
oried  man  out  of  your  house  as  you  can  another.  You  don't 
get  rid  of  him  if  you  do.  He  has  his  own — ubiquity.  There 
is  only  one  of  him,  and  you  never  know  where  he  isn't.  It 
was  not  now  a  question  of  whether  he  should  marry  Julia 
Oliphant,  but  whether  he  was  to  be  suffered  to  vanish,  to 
be  swallowed  up  in  the  world  of  men,  a  drop  in  the  human 
ocean  that  did  not  merge  but  still  remained  a  drop,  a  grain 
on  humanity's  shore  yet  numbered  too,  an  anomaly,  a  con- 
tradiction in  nature,  a  ghost  in  the  flesh,  a  man  among  ghosts. 
For  if  he  was  a  ghost  to  us  we  must  be  ghosts  to  him.  And 
ghost  does  not  bring  ghost  to  book  for  reasons  of  the  flesh. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  167 

No,  he  was  still  Derry,  on  whom  this  enormous  destiny  had 
alighted.  He  was  not  to  be  judged. 

Nevertheless  he  must  settle  his  soul's  affairs  and  eat  his 
breakfast  like  anybody  else. 

We  got  through  that  meal  somehow.  Julia  talked  to 
Derry,  and  I  suppose  I  also  was  included,  but  I  have  no 
memory  of  what  it  was  all  about.  One  vivid  little  incident, 
however,  I  do  remember.  I  learned  why  the  heavy  roller 
on  the  tennis  court  had  been  moved.  She  had  asked  Derry 
whether  he  could  lift  it,  and  for  answer  he  had  picked  it  up 
and  held  it  above  his  head,  as  once  he  had  held  her  sewing- 
machine.  So  she  had  gloried  in  him.  .  .  .  But  of  the  rest 
of  the  conversation  I  remember  nothing.  Breakfast  over,  I 
excused  myself  and  left  them  at  the  table  together.  It  had 
occurred  to  me  that  I  was  still  as  I  had  returned  from  the 
Devil's  Punch  Bowl,  and  that  I  had  neither  shaved  nor 
bathed. 

But  on  my  way  to  my  room  Mrs  Moxon  again  met  me. 
She  was  replacing  flowers,  and  she  carried  a  pail  of  withered 
ones  in  her  hand. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  may  I  ask  if  you  got  up  in  the 
night?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.     "Why?" 

"Only  that  I  fancied  I  heard  somebody  moving  about," 
she  said. 

"Yes.  I  went  into  Mr  Rose's  room.  Then  I  went  out  for 
a  walk.  I'm  not  sleeping  very  well,  Mrs  Moxon.  To-night 
I  shall  take  a  draught." 

She  knows  my  tone.  I  hope  she  was  satisfied.  I  passed 
on  to  my  dressing-room. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  I  came  down  again.  I 
found  Julia  at  one  of  the  drawing-room  windows,  alone  and 
gazing  out  over  the  pond.  She  started  at  the  sound  of  my 
voice  behind  her. 

"Where's  Derry?"  I  had  asked. 

"Over  there  by  the  punt,"  she  replied. 

I  had  not  noticed  him  as  he  had  stooped  behind  the  little 
shelter  to  untie  it. 


168  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Is  he  leaving  to-day  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Are  you  trying  to  keep  him  ?" 

She  had  turned  her  back  on  me  again  and  was  once  more 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "Of  course  I'm  trying  to  keep 
him — so  far  as  I  may  in  somebody  else's  house." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  Why 'of  course?'" 

"Of  course  it's  of  course.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  take 
my  eyes  off  him  for  a  single  moment  ?  You  heard  what  he 
said  before  breakfast." 

"About  walking  to  London  as  the  quickest  way  of  getting 
back  to  that  book  of  his  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Derry  had  moved,  and  her  eyes  had 
instantly  moved  with  him. 

"Why  is  he  putting  out  by  himself?  Why  aren't  you 
with  him  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh — as  long  as  I  know  where  he  is " 

"Didn't  he  ask  you  to  join  him?" 

"No." 

"The  first  time  for  two  days  ?" 

No  reply. 

"I  wonder  why  he  didn't  ask  you  ?" 

"I  wonder,"  she  repeated. 

"Have  you  no  idea  ?" 

With  that  she  suddenly  confronted  me.  She  stood  with 
her  hands  on  either  side  of  the  window-frame,  dark  against 
the  morning  light.  She  looked  straight  into  my  eyes. 

"Isn't  this  rather  a  catechism,  George  ?"  she  said.  "Your 
tone  too.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something.  It's  this ;  Are 
these  really  the  questions  you're  wanting  to  ask  me  ?" 

She  said  it  with  the  proudest  calm ;  but  whatever  it  was 
that  existed  between  us  made  me  for  some  moments  longer 
as  calm  as  herself. 

"I  do  want  to  know  those  things.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't 
have  asked  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  I  said  it  badly.  That's  not  what  I  meant. 
I  mean  are  those  the  only  questions  you  want  to  ask  me  ?" 

The  moment  she  said  it  I  was  much  less  certain  that  they 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  169 

were  not.  Her  next  words  plunged  me  still  deeper  into 
doubt.  She  spoke  as  it  were  direct  from  the  heart  of  some 
uttermost  complexity. 

"What  is  the  relation  between  you  and  me,  George?"  she 
demanded. 

I  considered,  my  eyes  downcast.  I  felt  hers  steadily  on 
my  face  all  the  time.  I  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"I'm  beginning  to  know  less  than  ever." 

"You'd  hardly  call  it  ordinary,  would  you — conventional 
and  so  on?" 

"That's  quite  the  last  word  I  should  use." 

"It's  not  ordinary  because  of  an  extraordinary  element 
that's  at  the  very  root  of  it.  You  know  what  that  is ;  it's" — 
her  eyes  went  towards  the  punt — "it's  all  him.  He's  got  us 
all  on  the  run.  Give  him  his  head  and  he  could  have  the 
whole  world  on  the  run.  There's  no  reason  about  it;  as 
many  people  as  knew  about  him  would  simply  be  bewitched. 
So  I've  taken  it  for  granted  that  we  don't  quite  come  under 
everyday  rules.  We  have  to  break  and  make  rules  as  we  go 
along.  .  .  .  About  those  questions.  They  really  are  all  that 
you  want  to  know — just  what  he'll  do  next  and  so  on  ?"  she 
challenged  me. 

I  think  I  should  have  broken  in  on  the  spot  with  a  "Yes — 
I  want  to  know  nothing  else — nothing  at  all !"  But  she  gave 
me  no  time.  Her  eyes  called  my  own  downcast  ones  per- 
emptorily up  from  the  floor. 

"Because,"  she  said,  with  the  utmost  distinctness  in  the 
shaping  of  each  syllable,  "I  notice  that  since  breakfast  you've 
shaved,  George.  You've  also  changed  your  clothes.  One 
does  not  usually  change  one's  clothes  immediately  after 
breakfast.  I  suppose  Mrs  'Moxon  is  brushing  the  others. 
They  needed  brushing.  They  had  bits  of  dried  grass 
and  heather  on  them.  .  .  .  George — George  dear — thank 
you " 

I  spoke  in  little  more  than  a  whisper.    "For — going  out  ?" 

"Oh  no.  For  only  thinking  of  it — for  only  thinking  of  it. 
But  you  would  think  of  it ;  I  always  knew  you'd  be  like  that. 
.  .  .  Now  ask  me  anything  you  like.  Anything  you  like. 


170  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Only  don't  ask  Derry.  It  made" — for  an  instant  only  there 
was  the  slightest  tremor  in  her  voice — "it  made  no  difference 
to  him." 

What,  as  she  had  said,  was  our  relation?  Had  he  "got 
us  going"?  Had  he  subdued  all  our  standards  to  his  own 
standardlessness  ?  Had  he  withdrawn  some  linchpin  of 
ordinary  conduct  from  the  wheel  on  which  the  whole 
world  revolves?  I  didn't  know.  I  don't  know  now.  The 
more  I  think  of  it  the  less  I  know.  I  only  know  what  I  did. 
Her  affairs  were  her  affairs,  and  I  have  ado  enough  to  look 
after  my  own.  I  took  one  of  her  cool  hands  in  mine,  bowed 
as  low  over  it  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen,  and  kissed  it. 

Her  other  hand  rested  lightly  for  a  moment  on  my  head 
as  I  did  so. 

"And  now,"  she  resumed  in  her  ordinary  tones,  "about 
him." 

He  was  sitting  alone  in  the  punt,  some  forty  yards  away, 
gazing  straight  before  him.  He  had  ceased  to  paddle,  the 
water  had  ceased  to  drip  from  his  resting  blade.  It  accen- 
tuated his  isolation  that  for  two  whole  days  he  had  hardly 
left  her  side.  Restlessness  and  impatience  plainly  possessed 
him.  He  was  straining  to  be  off.  It  would  not  have  sur- 
prised me  to  see  him  suddenly  thrust  the  paddle  in,  swirl 
across  the  lake,  tie  up  the  punt,  walk  straight  up  to  me,  hold 
out  his  hand,  and  say,  "George,  old  man,  it's  no  good — I've 
got  to  go  this  moment."  I  turned  to  Julia. 

"If  he  leaves  shall  you  go  with  him?"  I  asked. 

"Leaves  here?    This  house?    To-day?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that." 

"You  mean  if  he  buckles  on  his  knapsack  again?" 

"If  that's  the  next  stage." 

"I'm  afraid  to  think." 

"Then  you  do  think  he  might  just — go  off?" 

She  sighed  a  little.    "I  suppose  it  has  to  be  faced." 

"And  in  that  case  would  you  go  with  him  ?" 

She  started  nervously.  He  had  put  in  the  paddle.  But 
he  only  gave  a  couple  of  strokes,  and  withdrew  it  again. 
Her  voice  was  low. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  171 

"I  would,  of  course.  To  the  end  of  the  world.  But  that's 
the  whole  point.  He  never  wanted  me.  He  doesn't  want 
me  now.  He  won't  want  me  then." 

I  saw — only  too  plainly.  Naturally  he  would  not  want  her. 
It  was  the  very  essence  of  his  wandering  that  he  should  be 
unhampered  and  alone.  That  which  she  now  had  she  had; 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  all  she  would  ever  have. 
She  had  thrown,  and — won?  Lost?  Which?  That  was 
for  her  to  say.  Had  she  remained  content  as  she  was  she 
might  have  kept  him  on  the  original  terms  in  perpetuity; 
but  it  looked  as  if  in  precipitating  the  event  she  had  en- 
compassed her  own  defeat.  Her  eyes  were  now  on  him  as 
if  they  would  never  see  him  again. 

"Shall  we  go  across  to  him?"  I  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Don't  worry  him.  There's  no 
stopping  it.  He's  bound  to  go.  There,  I  didn't  want  to  say 
it,  but  it's  better  to  face  it.  He's  fighting  with  the  Wander- 
lust now.  And  if  he  goes  it  isn't  the  end.  There  are  stages 
beyond  that,  and  there's  no  stopping  them  either.  He'll 
come  back  in  the  end." 

"Then  you'll  let  him  go  ?" 

"He  shall  do  whatever  he  wishes.    It  mayn't  be  for  long." 

"How  many  Wanderjahre  had  he?" 

"Two — three — I  don't  quite  remember.  But  that  may 
not  mean  more  than  a  week  or  a  fortnight  really." 

"And— he'll  come  back?" 

"He'll  come  back,  or  we  can  go  to  him.  Probably  he 
won't  be  able  to  get  very  far.  Anyway  nothing  on  earth  can 
stop  it,  so  there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

I  looked  at  her  fixedly,  earnestly.  "But  there  is  more  to 
be  said.  What  about  yourself  ?"  I  said  quietly. 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  left  that  man  in  the  punt  who 
fidgeted  to  feel  the  stick  in  his  hand  again,  the  pack  on  his 
back  and  the  hard  road  under  his  feet.  They  smiled  dimly 
into  mine. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  painter.  There'll  be  that  portrait  of  yours 
to  start  presently,  George." 

And  back  went  the  eyes  to  the  motionless  figure  in  the  punt. 


172  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

V 

Derry  stayed  to  lunch  without  further  pressing.  He  had 
made  his  book  his  excuse;  that  brushed  aside,  he  had  no 
choice  but  to  stay  or  give  his  reason  for  not  staying.  So, 
as  a  man  who  is  starting  on  a  walking-tour  of  indefinite 
duration  can  hardly  boggle  at  an  hour  or  two  sooner  or 
later  in  the  starting,  and  as,  moreover,  having  brought  Julia, 
he  must  in  ordinary  politeness  take  her  back  again,  he  stayed. 

But  lunch  was  nearly  as  extraordinary  as  breakfast  had 
been.  Once  more  he  tried  to  urge  his  book,  and  again  failed. 
And  I  remembered  how  formerly,  in  Cambridge  Circus,  his 
very  thought  and  essence  had  been  modified  in  my  presence, 
awaiting  only  sleep  to  put  the  visible  and  physical  seal  upon 
it.  It  needed  only  half  an  eye  to  see  that  he  no  longer  had 
the  least  interest  in  that  book.  The  more  he  urged  it,  the 
more  plainly  it  became  a  thing  of  the  past.  Vivaciously,  yet 
as  if  repeating  them  from  memory,  he  said  things  he  had  said 
twice  and  thrice  before;  echoes,  mere  echoes.  .  .  .  And 
then  suddenly  he  ceased  to  talk  about  his  book.  He  wanted 
a  change,  he  said ;  wanted  to  get  away  somewhere ;  and  this 
rang  instantly  true.  I  fancied  he  even  became  a  little  cun- 
ning. "Do  you  know,  George,  I've  never  in  my  life  been  in 
Ireland?"  he  said.  "Only  an  hour  or  two  away,  and  I've 
never  been !  Lord,  how  we  do  sit  still  in  one  place !  I  feel 
positively  ashamed.  We  settle  down — get  sitzfleich — heav- 
ens, I  do  want  a  change!"  .  .  .  And  somehow  I  knew  that 
he  was  dragging  in  Ireland  as  a  red-herring.  He  had  no 
intention  of  going  there.  That  was  purely  for  our  benefit. 
He  not  only  wanted  to  go  away  alone,  but  he  did  not  wish 
to  have  his  whereabouts  known.  Only  a  few  hours  before 
he  had  made  much  of  Julia  and  myself,  as  his  only  rest  and 
comfort  in  that  wavering  ebb  of  his  life ;  now  he  no  longer 
did  not  need,  but  very  definitely  did  not  want  companionship. 
And  he  threw  dust  in  our  eyes.  Yes,  just  a  little  cunning. 
I  made  a  note  of  it. 

I  have  said  that  the  afternoon  train  to  town  was  at  four- 
forty.  There  was  not  another  till  seven-eighteen,  reaching 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  173 

Waterloo  at  eight-forty-one.  There  was  little  doubt  which 
of  the  two  he  would  choose.  As  we  all  three  took  a  stroll 
backwards  and  forwards  after  lunch  he  turned  to  Julia. 

"WTill  the  four- forty  suit  you  all  right  ?"  he  asked. 

She  only  nodded. 

"Right.  And  I  say :  would  you  mind  if  when  we  got  to 
town  I  put  you  on  your  bus  at  Waterloo  and  left  you? 
There's  a  little  job  I  must  do." 

"Very  well,  Derry,"  she  said. 

"And  now,  George,  if  you  could  spare  me  just  a  mo- 
ment  ,"  this  time  he  turned  to  me. 

Julia  walked  rather  quickly  away. 

The  "little  job"  of  which  he  had  spoken  was  this : 

He  wanted  me — quite  at  my  own  convenience,  of  course, 
and  whenever  I  next  happened  to  be  in  town — to  arrange 
for  the  sale  of  his  things  at  Cambridge  Circus.  To  attend 
to  this  himself  might  be  to  ask  for  trouble.  So  I  was  to  sell 
everything  for  what  it  would  fetch  and  remit  the  money  to 
him. 

"Where?"  I  asked  him.     ("Ireland?"  I  thought.) 

"I  shall  have  to  let  you  know  that  later,"  he  replied.  "I 
want  to  sell  the  lot  and  pay  all  up  there ;  chairs  and  curtains 
are  no  good  to  a  man  like  me.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever 
want  'em  a^ain.  I  shall  have  to  settle  up  with  Trenchard 
too,  and  money's  as  well  in  your  pocket  as  anywhere  else." 

"Will  you  have  some  now  to  be  going  on  with  ?" 

"No,  that's  quite  all  right.  I  have  all  I  want  for  the  pres- 
ent, if  you  wouldn't  mind  doing  this  other  for  me.  Thanks, 
old  fellow." 

"Is  it  to  Cambridge  Circus  that  you're  going  to-night 
when  you  leave  Julia  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  There  are  one  or  two  small  things  I  want,  and 
also  a  few  things  I  think  I'd  better  destroy." 

"Couldn't  you,"  I  said  slowly  and  quite  deliberately,  "have 
taken  her  home  and  seen  about  your  things  to-morrow  ?" 

I  felt  the  beginning  of  his  perturbation.  "It's  so  dashed 
awkward,  George,"  he  stammered.  "I  don't  want  to  go  in 
the  daytime." 


174  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Couldn't  you  go  to-morrow  night  and  still  take  her 
home?" 

Again  he  muttered,  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "Why  waste 
a  day?" 

"If,  as  you  say,  you  want  a  change — supposing  you  were 
to  go  off  somewhere  for  a  bit — wouldn't  you  like  somebody 
with  you  ?" 

"No,  George,"  he  answered  curtly. 

"You  are  going  away  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted. 

"Immediately  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Whereto?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Would  you  let  me  come  with  you  ?" 

"No." 

"Would  you,  if  it  were  possible,  take  Julia?" 

"No." 

"Might  both  of  us  come  with  you  together  ?" 

"No."  And,  raising  his  voice,  "No,  I  tell  you,  no!"  he 
said. 

We  had  stopped  by  a  rather  shabby-looking  thicket  of 
rugosa  roses  near  the  diving-stage.  The  pink-flowered  hedge 
hid  us  from  the  house.  I  spoke  quietly,  not  to  give  my  own 
agitation  too  much  head. 

"Derry,"  I  said,  "you  remember  what  you  showed  me 
with  that  flashlight  that  night  in  your  rooms?" 

With  marked  reluctance  he  answered,  "Yes  I  do." 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that.  I've  been  thinking  a  lot 
about  it.  Of  course  it  makes  a  considerable  difference  how 
far  away  you  hold  the  lamp." 

"A  hell  of  a  difference,"  he  muttered. 

"Do  you  always  hold  it  at  the  same  distance?" 

His  whole  mind  seemed  to  wriggle.  "I  haven't,  if  you 
must  know.  But  why  drag  all  this  up  again  ?  I  offered  to 
tell  you  before  but  you  wouldn't  listen." 

"I  hadn't  the  reason  then  that  I  have  now.  Do  you — 
move  it  about  deliberately?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  175 

"I  have  to  some  extent.  I  told  you  that.  I  did  by  an 
effort  of  will  when  I  came  here  for  a  day's  rest." 

"A  day's  rest?  .  .  .  You're  not  going  back  to  that  book. 
You  know  that  better  than  I  do.  That  book's  all  past  and 
done  with.  Something's  happened  since." 

I  saw  him  turn  pale.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked 
almost  inaudibly. 

"You  came  here  on  Friday  midday.  I've  watched  you 
carefully  ever  since.  Let's — well,  let's  stick  to  terms  of  the 
flash-lamp.  Except  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  at  break- 
fast yesterday  morning,  when  you  talked  about  your  book, 
you've  had  that  lamp  steadily  rather  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
table.  Isn't  that  so  ?" 

"I  tell  you  a  holiday's  a  holiday,"  he  said  faintly. 

"Let  me  go  on.  I  want  to  know  how  close  that  lamp  has 
been.  The  closer  you  hold  it  the  more  ecstatically  you  ex- 
perience, you  know.  Very  well.  Now  has  there  been  a 
moment  since  yesterday  when  .  .  .  you've  held  it  as  close  as 
you  could  get  it?" 

I  was  in  time  to  catch  him  as  he  swayed.  He  clutched  at 
my  shoulder. 

"George " 

"Steady— but  tell  me " 

"George — I've  been  trying  to  remember " 

"What!  Good  God!  You  don't  remem — so  close  that 
you  don't  remember?" 

"I  honestly — but  no,  that  isn't  true — I  seem  to  remember 
something — let  me  think,  let  me  think.  .  .  .  What  time  did 
I  go  to  bed  last  night?" 

"Later  than  usual.    Not  till  half-past  nine." 

"What  was  I  doing?  Tell  me  what  I  was  doing.  I  was 
looking  at  pictures  or  something,  wasn't  I  ?" 

"You  were  looking  at  the  Hogarth  prints." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  right.  ...  I  didn't  fall  asleep,  did  I  ?" 

"No,  you  didn't." 

He  muttered  thickly.  Outrageous,  extravagant,  beyond 
reason  as  it  was,  his  sincerity  could  not  be  doubted.  "It 
made  no  difference  to  him,"  Julia  had  said;  but  that  her 


176  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

words  should  be  taken  au  pied  de  la  lettre  like  that!  .  .  . 
He  continued  to  mutter. 

"I  do  remember  something — I  do  remember — at  least  I 
did  this  morning — I  thought  I  did — but  it  went.  Why  didn't 
I  come  into  breakfast?  Why  was  I  going  away  without  any 
breakfast?  Why  wouldn't  I  have  breakfast,  George?  I'm 
sure  there  was  a  reason,  but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  re- 
member." Then  he  began  to  talk  rapidly.  "That  lamp — 
very  close,  you  say — touching — something  all  instantaneous 
and  burning — one  intense  brilliant  spot — no  before  or  after 
— all  isolated  by  itself — but  I'll  swear  I  didn't  fake  the  lamp 
that  time !  By  all  that's  sacred  I  swear  it,  George !  Some- 
thing happened  in  the  night  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  me 
at  all !  It  all  happens  in  the  night.  Why" — he  flung  out  his 
arms  in  a  perfectly  amazing  appeal — "if  I'd  moved  the  light 
at  all  it  would  have  been  farther  away!  I  wanted  to  do 
that  book !  I  thought  about  nothing  else  from  the  moment 
I  went  upstairs!  I  ached  to  be  at  it — wished  this  wasted 
week-end  was  over — I  saw  it  all  again  perfectly  clearly, 
beautifully  clearly!  I'd  got  out  of  bed.  And  then  .  .  . 
everything  went  out.  It  was  exactly  as  if  somebody'd  taken 
that  torch  out  of  my  hand,  somebody  with  a  stronger  will 
than  mine,  and  concentrated  it — in  the  very  moment  when 
I  saw  that  book  practically  written — one  bright  blazing 
bull's-eye " 

There  was  a  little  bench  about  four  yards  away.  I  think 
I  needed  its  support  more  than  he.  Together  we  reached 
it  and  sat  down.  He  turned  the  beautiful  grey-blue  eyes 
on  me. 

"George,"  he  said  more  quietly,  "something  happened. 
I  know  it  did." 

I  made  no  reply. 

"Something  happened.  Something's  been  done  to  me. 
Somebody's  been  taking  a  hand  in  my  life.  At  breakfast- 
time  I  almost  knew  what  it  was.  Do  you  know  what  it 
was?" 

There  was  only  one  possible  answer  to  this.  I  made  it, 
in  a  broken  voice. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  177 

"No,  old  man,  I  don't." 

"Except  of  course  that  I've  slipped  back  again." 

"Except  that,  I  suppose." 

He  passed  his  hand  wearily  over  his  brow,  and,  much  as  I 
hated  that  insolent  vainglorious  book  of  his,  the  gesture  with 
which  he  wiped  it  away  went  strangely  to  my  heart. 

"Then  what's  that  make  the  year  now?  1903  or  4  I  sup- 
pose ;  all  blind  guessing  though ;  how  can  you  tell  your  age 
to  a  year  or  two  simply  by  how  you  feel?  .  .  .  But  that 
would  be  about  it.  I  was  in  the  Adriatic  in  1903;  Venice, 
and  across  to  Genoa  and  Marseilles.  I'd  been  in  Marseilles 
a  few  years  before  and  thought  I'd  like  another  look  at  it. 
Gay  place.  There  was  a  little  cafe  on  the  Vieux  Port  with 
a  little  stage  where  a  woman  used  to  dance.  Andalusian ; 
very  dark-eyed ;  pretty  sort  of  wild  animal.  She  had  a  little 
sloping  mirror  at  the  top  of  the  stage  so  she  could  see  who 
was  in  front  when  she  was  behind.  Wicked  show ;  I  wasn't 
having  any;  knives  come  out  too  easily  there.  But  of 
course  she'd  gone  when  I  went  again  in  1904." 

I  made  one  more  appeal.  "Derry,  can't  you  stay  here  a 
little  longer  ?" 

But  it  had  now  resumed  its  possession  of  him.  He  was 
almost  cheerful  again. 

"Sorry,  George.  It's  good  of  you  to  ask  me,  but  it's  quite 
impossible.  Glad  Julia  was  able  to  take  a  run  down  with 
me :  she's  a  rattling  good  sort.  I  feel  rather  beastly  about 
shaking  her  at  Waterloo,  but  I  really  must  get  up  to  Cam- 
bridge Circus  to-night.  And  if  you'll  see  about  selling  those 
things,  George — any  time  will  do — I've  got  nearly  a  hundred 
pounds,  so  there's  really  no  hurry — I'll  let  you  know  where 
to  send  the  money  to " 

I  drove  them  to  the  station.  As  the  car  turned  out  of  the 
drive  Julia's  eyes  took  a  last  look  at  my  balconied  house. 
His  spirits  were  now  high ;  he  was  on  the  eve  of  a  holiday. 
They  got  into  an  empty  third-class  carriage. 

"Well,  thanks  most  awfully,  George,"  he  said. 

We  waved  hands. 


178  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Both  their  heads  were  framed  in  the  window  as  the  train 
glided  out  of  the  station. 

That  night  I  once  more  roamed  restlessly  from  room  to 
room  of  my  house.  The  place  seemed  extraordinarily  and 
insistently  empty,  and  I  could  not  have  told  you  whether  I 
was  glad  or  sorry  for  it.  For  this  thing  was  getting  alto- 
gether too  much  for  me.  Remember  that  I  am  merely  a 
commercially  successful  English  novelist,  not  a  person  ac- 
customed to  the  contemplation  of  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
death  in  terms  of  electric  torches  and  bamboo  tables.  Also 
a  man  of  my  years  does  not  spend  a  night  at  the  Devil's 
Punch  Bowl  without  knowing  something  about  it  after- 
wards. In  this  connection,  going  into  my  dressing-room,  I 
found  that  after  all  my  suit  of  clothes  had  not  been  brushed. 
I  summoned  Mrs  Moxon  and  told  her  to  take  them  away. 
She  stiffened  a  little,  and  some  part  of  her  clothing  creaked. 

"It's  made  a  good  deal  of  extra  work  for  the  week-end," 
she  reminded  me. 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,  but  you  were  consulted  beforehand," 
I  said. 

"It  was  more  than  I  reckoned  for,"  she  announced  with 
dignity. 

A  little  of  this  was  enough. 

"Very  well,  Mrs  Moxon.  Take  the  clothes  away,  please, 
and  let  me  have  them  to-morrow.  By  the  way,  I  shall  be 
going  up  to  town  by  the  midday  train." 

"In  that  case,  sir,"  she  said,  "if  you're  seeing  Mr  Rose 
perhaps  you'd  give  him  this.  I  suppose  it's  his.  I  found  it 
in  his  room." 

She  put  into  my  hand  a  small  book  covered  with  shiny 
black  cloth.  I  opened  it  to  see  what  it  was. 

A  single  glance  told  me.    It  was  Derwent  Rose's  diary. 


PART  V 
THE  PIVOT 


"George,  you  haven't  brought  your  Beautiful  Bear  round 
to  see  me  yet,"  said  Madge  Aird.  And  I  jumped  a  little  as 
she  added,  "By  the  way,  does  he  happen  to  have  a  brother?" 

"No.    At  least  I  never  heard  of  one.    Why  ?" 

"I  wondered.  I've  seen  somebody  most  remarkably  like 
him,  only  younger.  In  this  neighbourhood  too.  I  thought 
Nature  made  him  and  then  lost  the  recipe,  or  whatever  the 
saying  is." 

I  assumed  a  lightness  I  hardly  felt.  "Did  you  'fall  for 
this  other  paragon  as  you  did  for  Mr  Rose  ?" 

She  laughed.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  dare  say  beauty  of 
that  sort  would  be  ill  to  live  with.  Better  a  dinner  of  herbs 
all  to  yourself  than  a  stalled  ox  every  woman  you  knew 
would  be  running  after.  Or  words  to  that  effect.  So  you 
and  Alec  needn't  be  too  downhearted.  But  really  he  was 
most  astonishingly  like.  Where  does  Mr  Rose  live?" 

"Mr  Rose  is  at  present  abroad." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  it  was  he!  I  couldn't  make  a 
mistake  like  that — I'd  far  too  good  a  look  at  him  the  other 
time,  the  dazzling  creature !  But  you  might  find  out  if  the 
family's  seriously  addicted  to  monogamy,  unless  he  turns 
out  to  have  a  brother  after  all.  Well,  when  are  you  coming 
to  see  us  ?  Better  hurry,  as  we're  off  very  soon." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Dinard.  The  three  of  us.  Johnnie's  taken  a  villa.  Have 
you  settled  what  you're  going  to  do  yet?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Then  why  not  come  over  to  us  for  a  few  weeks  ?  When 
you  get  tired  of  me,  Jennie's  getting  most  take-about-able. 
She's  seventeen.  And — George " 

"Yes?" 

181 


182  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"When  a  woman  tells  you  she's  got  a  daughter  of  seven- 
teen there  are  quite  a  number  of  pretty  things  to  be  said " 

We  continued  to  talk  and  walk  aimlessly  side  by  side.  I 
had  met  her  in  Queen's  Gate,  and  I  intended  to  retrace  my 
steps  to  Queen's  Gate  the  moment  I  had  got  rid  of  her.  She 
chattered  on. 

"And  by  the  way,  has  Hastings  mentioned  Mr  Rose  to 
you  lately?" 

"No.  Why?"  I  said.  Hastings  is  my  literary  agent,  the 
man  beside  whose  labours  on  my  behalf  my  own  seem  puny. 

"Because  I've  got  a  feeling  that  this  creature  of  all  the 
talents  really  is  coming  off  this  time,"  she  went  on.  "Hast- 
ings has  found  a  publisher  who's  going  to  see  that  Derwent 
Rose  is  'It'  or  die  in  the  attempt.  So  if  you  want  to  do  the 
Bear  a  good  turn  send  him  to  Hastings.  When  is  he  coming 
back?" 

"I  don't  quite  know." 

"Well,  there's  no  immediate  hurry.  Everybody'll  be  away 
in  another  week  or  two.  But  it  would  be  rather  joysome  to 
see  Derwent  Rose  at  last  where  he  really  belongs !  Well, 
think  about  Dinard.  Any  time  you  like.  'Bye " 

And  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  she  was  off. 

Even  when  you  think  you  are  thoroughly  accustomed  to 
the  idea  of  a  thing  it  can  sometimes  come  freshly  over  you; 
and  merely  in  the  professional  part  of  me  I  had  felt  an 
oddly  special  little  pang  at  Madge's  last  words.  Here,  ap- 
parently, was  a  publisher  who  believed  in  Derwent  Rose  and 
was  prepared  to  back  his  belief  with  money;  and — it  was 
too  late!  Derwent  Rose,  wanderer,  would  never  write  an- 
other book.  A  few  travel-sketches,  perhaps,  a  few  pen-pic- 
tures by  the  way,  a  few  evening-paper  articles ;  but  another 
book — no.  I  wished  that  publisher  no  ill,  but  I  did  wish  that 
he  had  recognised  Derry's  struggles,  endeavours,  faithful- 
ness, strength,  a  little  sooner  than  a  day  after  the  fair. 
Poor  Derry  would  not  have  even  the  cynical  consolation  that 
while  his  real  books  had  been  neglected  money  would  be 
heaped  on  him  for  his  bad  ones.  He  no  longer  had  a  book 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  183 

left  in  him.    A  pugilist's  manager  would  be  of  more  use  to 
him  than  a  publisher  now. 

I  passed  up  Queen's  Gate  and  turned  into  the  mews  where 
I  had  arranged  to  meet  Trenchard. 

I  had  made  my  appointment  with  him  because  I  had  a 
question  of  special  importance  to  ask  him.  I  wanted  to  know 
whether  Trenchard  had  seen  him  immediately  before  his 
departure,  and,  if  he  had,  how  old  he  now  looked. 

For  the  farther  he  travelled  the  more  crucial  this  question 
became.  From  forty-five  to  thirty-five  he  might  still  pass 
as  Derwent  Rose,  but  he  could  hardly  do  so  from,  say, 
forty-five  to  twenty.  I  had  not  a  moment's  doubt  that  it 
had  indeed  been  he  whom  Madge  had  seen  and  had  failed 
to  recognise — nay,  had  unhesitatingly  assumed  to  be  another 
man.  Also  my  housekeeper's  suspicions  that  all  was  not  as 
it  should  have  been  had  also  been  thoroughly  awakened. 
"It  is  Mr  Rose,  isn't  it?"  she  had  asked  me  with  a  puzzled 
look  on  the  Friday  midday;  but  by  Sunday  morning  Julia 
and  he  had  become  "the  lady  and  gentleman"  who  had  had 
to  be  fetched  in  to  breakfast.  Old  Mrs  Truscott  again  had 
unhesitatingly  set  him  down  as  years  younger  than  Julia. 
If  Trenchard  had  seen  him  before  his  departure  he  had 
probably  been  the  last  of  us  to  do  so.  Trenchard,  in  short, 
was  to  tell  me  what  Berry's  diary  had  completely  failed  to 
tell  me. 

For  that  little  shiny-backed  pocket  book  had  merely 
brought  things  to  a  more  hideously  complicated  pass  even 
than  before.  I  shall  return  to  this  diary  in  a  moment;  for 
the  present  let  it  suffice  that,  like  the  publisher's  offer,  it 
seemed  to  me  to  have  turned  up  just  a  few  hours  too  late. 
I  had  hoped  for  a  survey  wide  enough,  simplified  enough,  to 
help  me  to  his  rate  of  progress.  I  had  so  far  found  nothing 
of  the  slightest  use  whatever.  I  was  without  the  faintest 
idea  of  his  present  age.  He  might  have  been  thirty,  twenty- 
five,  twenty,  younger.  He  might  even  be  sixteen,  at  which 
age  he  had  said  he  would  die. 

Trenchard  I  found  to  be  a  black-haired,  pleasant-voiced, 


i84  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

very  much  alive  fellow  of  a  little  under  thirty.  His  rank, 
I  believe,  had  been  that  of  major,  and  even  the  atrocious 
crippling  he  had  received  at  La  Bassee  did  not  destroy  his 
look  of  perfect  efficiency.  He  was  just  able  to  start  up  a 
car,  and  cars  were  his  livelihood  and  he  lived  in  them.  I 
introduced  myself,  and  he  hobbled  cheerfully  about  among 
his  cups  and  bread-and-butter  and  methylated  spirits. 

"So,"  I  concluded  my  introduction  of  myself,  "as  I'm 
settling  up  a  few  matters  for  him  I  wanted  to  know  how  you 
stood." 

"Oh,  everything's  perfectly  all  right  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned," he  laughed,  filling  the  teapot.  "Place  left  like  a 
new  pin,  Bradburys  in  an  envelope,  and  a  quite  unnecessary 
letter  of  thanks  for  what  he  calls  my  kindness.  I  was  only 
too  glad  to  have  somebody  in  the  place." 

"Do  you  know  what  day  he  left?" 

"Let  me  see.  To-day's  the  ninth.  He  left  on  Monday, 
the  fifth." 

(Note:  he  had  cleared  out  of  Trenchard's  place  the  day 
after  I  had  seen  him  and  Julia  off  at  Haslemere  Station.) 

"He  didn't  say  where  he  was  going?" 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance.  "I  say,  this  is  all  right,  isn't 
it  ?"  Then,  laughing  as  I  smiled,  "Sorry,  but  one  has  to  be 
careful,  you  know.  No,  he  didn't  say.  Here's  his  note  if  you 
care  to  read  it.  I  don't  even  know  what  to  do  with  letters 
if  any  come  for  him." 

Already  I  guessed  that  it  would  be  useless  to  put  my  ques- 
tion ;  but  I  asked  it  none  the  less. 

"You  didn't  see  him  before  he  left,  then?" 

"No.  He  simply  left  that  note.  It's  dated  the  evening 
of  the  fourth,  and  it  says  he's  off  to-morrow.  ...  By  the 
way,  what  am  I  to  do  about  letters  ?" 

There  wouldn't  be  any  letters.  Of  that  I  was  sure.  But  I 
gave  him  my  address,  wound  up  a  pleasant  chat  rather 
quickly,  and  took  my  leave. 

And  now  for  that  diary  that,  instead  of  helping  me,  had 
proved  the  greatest  stumbling-block  of  all. 

I  had  had  not  a  moment's  scruple  in  reading  every  word 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  185 

of  it,  in  trying  to  disentangle  every  diagram  and  equation  it 
contained.  Any  question  of  ordinary  decorum  had  long 
since  passed  out  of  the  relation  that  existed  between  him, 
Julia,  and  myself.  And  let  me  repeat  once  more  that  a  man 
who  has  questioned  the  universe  until  he  has  asked  one  ques- 
tion too  many  involves  in  his  own  fatality  all  who  have  to 
endure  the  contact  of  him.  His  state  is  apocalyptic,  his 
existence  merely  spatial,  without  zenith  of  virtue  or  nadir  of 
disgrace.  If  my  roof  had  not  been  abused,  neither  did  I 
violate  his  diary.  I  merely  read  it  without  a  qualm. 

Its  oddity  began  with  its  very  first  page.  Ordinarily  on 
the  first  page  of  a  diary  you  look  for  the  owner's  name  and 
address.  Here  was  no  address ;  on  the  other  hand  there  was 
a  string  of  names.  There  were,  to  be  exact,  eight  of  them, 
with  space  for  more,  the  whole  written  in  his  small  fine  hand 
and  disposed  in  a  neat  vertical  column.  This  block  of  names 
might  have  been  from  the  everyday-book  of  any  working 
novelist,  part  of  whose  task  it  is  to  label  his  puppets  ap- 
propriately. I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  hitherto  Der- 
went  Rose  had  ever  gone  under  any  name  but  his  own.  It 
had  certainly  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  sooner  or  later 
have  to  do  so.  This  appeared  to  be  a  preparation  for  such  a 
contingency.  His  own  name  of  Derwent  Rose,  by  the  way, 
did  not  appear. 

Opposite  the  names  a  diagram  had  been  pasted  into  the 
book.  It  was  on  squared  paper,  such  as  draughtsmen  use, 
of  so  many  squares  to  the  inch ;  and  these  squares  had  been 
numbered  horizontally  along  the  top  with  the  years  from 
1891  to  1920,  that  is  to  say  from  his  own  age  of  sixteen  on. 
Lower  down  the  page,  and  still  horizontally,  red  and  black 
lines  of  various  lengths  were  set  in  echelon.  These  were 
sprinkled  over  with  numbers,  which  I  discovered  to  refer 
to  the  pages  that  followed.  Certain  arrows  pointed  in  op- 
posite directions.  Over  these  were  written,  in  one  direction, 
the  words  "  'A'  memory,"  in  the  other  the  words  "  'B' 
memory."  This  completed  the  horizontal  arrangement. 

The  vertical  set-out  appeared  to  have  given  him  much 
more  trouble.  It  did  not  appear  to  have  been  completed.  A 


1 86  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

heavy  black  line  ruled  up  through  the  year  1905  was  lettered 
"true  middle,"  but  that  appeared  to  be  the  only  stable  term 
of  its  kind.  The  rest  was  a  mere  rain  of  pencil-lines,  mo- 
mentary false  middles  that  apparently  he  had  tried  to  seize  in 
passing.  I  knew  by  this  time  how  unseizable  they  were. 
Not  one  of  them  lay  on  the  right  side  of  the  true  middle 
line.  All  overstepped  it  and  travelled  in  a  gradual  procession 
towards  the  left  of  the  diagram. 

On  other  pages  I  found  other  diagrams.  These  were 
merely  enlarged  details  of  the  foregoing,  with  days  of  the 
month  instead  of  years. 

One  wild  chart  was  an  attempt  to  combine  the  whole  in  a 
single  comprehensive  statement.  But  this  had  completely 
beaten  him.  A  serpentine  whip-lash  of  pencil  had  been  flung 
so  viciously  across  it  that  one  almost  heard  the  crack. 

The  rest  of  the  book  consisted  of  text. 

I  was  of  course  prepared  at  any  moment  to  receive  a  tele- 
gram or  letter  asking  for  the  book's  instant  return.  If  it 
really  contained  the  key  to  his  speed  of  retrogression  it  was 
probably  the  most  important  thing  he  had  in  the  world. 
Therefore,  lest  he  should  claim  it  before  I  had  finished  with 
it,  it  stayed  in  my  breast  pocket  when  it  was  not  actually  in 
my  hand. 

And  so  I  had  three  days'  madness  over  the  hateful  thing. 
Twenty  times  I  nearly  tore  it  in  two  as  he  had  once  torn  a 
six-shilling  novel.  Then  at  the  end  of  the  three  days  I  put 
it  down,  leaned  back  exhausted  in  my  chair,  and  asked 
myself  what  it  was  that  I  was  really  in  search  of. 

I  wonder  whether  the  answer  will  startle  you  as  much 
as  it  startled  me.  True,  it  came  pat  enough.  There  was 
nothing  whatever  new  about  it.  It  was  merely  what  it  had 
been  all  along,  and  I  ought  to  have  been  familiar  with  it  by 
this  time.  ...  I  merely  wanted  to  know  his  age.  Just  that 
and  nothing  more. 

Yet  of  all  the  shocks  that  a  man  can  receive,  the  shock 
of  the  expected  and  waited-for  is  sometimes  the  most  pro- 
found. You  know  it  is  coming ;  it  is  therefore  pure,  f unda- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  187 

mental  shock,  unalleviated  by  the  lighter  element  we  call 
surprise.  When  something  you  have  lived  with  every  day, 
taken  for  granted,  thought  you  knew  all  about,  have  become 
familiar  with  to  the  point  of  boredom,  suddenly  so  recalls 
attention  to  itself  that  all  your  habitual  notions  about  it  drop 
clean  away,  leaving  you  face  to  face  with  a  strange  thing — 
a  line  of  verse,  an  object  in  your  house,  a  tune,  a  picture,  a 
wife — when  this  happens,  then  you  may  know  that  some- 
thing has  been  wrong  all  along,  is  still  wrong,  and  that  if  you 
would  set  it  right  you  must  go  back  to  the  very  beginning 
again. 

So  there  I  stood,  an  unhappy,  over-confident  little  scholar, 
wrhom  the  inexorable  tutor  silently  points  back  to  his  task. 

Humbly  I  returned  to  the  book  that,  if  it  told  me  anything 
at  all,  must  at  least  tell  me  this. 

And  now  I  must  ask  you  to  bear  your  portion  of  that  little 
shiny-backed  book  too;  for  on  a  point  of  this  importance  I 
cannot  allow  you  to  accept  my  own  conclusions  on  trust. 
You  must  know  how  I  arrived  at  them.  Where  Derwent 
Rose  was  at  that  moment,  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  what 
he  was  doing,  how  long  he  might  continue  to  do  it,  whether 
he  was  alive  at  all — these  things  depended  on  no  off-handed 
survey  of  his  case,  but  on  the  dry  figures,  dates  and  details 
that  I  had  hitherto  neglected. 

Fortunately  we  had  a  roughly-sufficient  starting-point. 
This  was  the  date  of  June  8th,  1920,  the  day  when  I  had  met 
him  at  the  Lyonnesse  Club.  It  was  not,  it  must  be  confessed, 
his  true  zero.  The  true  zero  was  now  indiscoverable.  But 
I  myself,  in  good  faith  and  knowing  nothing  of  all  this,  had 
judged  him  to  be  thirty-five  that  afternoon ;  he  himself  had 
confirmed  my  judgment,  subsequent  changes  had  sufficiently 
borne  it  out,  and  the  diary  now  re-affirmed  it. 

So  much  for  June  8th,  when,  if  he  had  had  an  age  at  all, 
it  had  presumably  been  thirty-five.  Thereafter  he  had  dis- 
appeared for  exactly  three  weeks,  and  on  June  29th,  a 
Tuesday,  he  had  spoken  to  me  in  the  picture-house  in 
Shaftesbury  Avenue. 


i88 

On  the  following  day,  Wednesday,  June  3Oth,  I  had 
returned  to  Haslemere,  having  left  Julia  waiting  for  her 
books  in  the  reading-room  of  the  British  Museum. 

Then,  two  days  later  still,  on  Friday,  July  2nd,  they  had 
unexpectedly  turned  up  together  at  my  house. 

Now  a  definite  note  in  the  diary,  written  as  a  matter  of 
fact  in  my  own  house  (for  he  kept  it  instantly  up  to  date), 
told  me  that  on  that  day,  July  2nd,  he  had  "felt  twenty-nine." 
True,  he  had  later  admitted  the  vagueness  of  these  mere 
"feelings"  as  an  index  to  age,  but  there  it  was  for  what  it 
was  worth,  and  it  agreed  with  the  impression  I  had  myself 
formed,  based  on  his  vivid  and  ecstatic  and  momentary 
moods.  Except  when  I  had  compelled  him  to  speak  of  his 
book,  Saturday  had  been  the  counterpart  of  Friday.  That 
is  to  say,  that  during  the  whole  of  Friday  and  Saturday  he 
had  remained  twenty-nine. 

Therefore  (and  omitting  the  loss  of  the  years  forty-five 
to  thirty-five,  now  untraceable),  during  the  twenty-five  days 
from  June  8th  to  July  3rd  he  had  dropped  a  total  of  six 
years. 

So  far  so  good;  but  that  was  not  quite  what  I  wanted  to 
know.  What  I  was  trying  to  ascertain  was  a  far  more  im- 
portant thing — the  shortest  actual  time  in  which  he  had  lost 
the  great  length  of  apparent  time.  It  would  make  the 
greatest  practical  difference  in  the  world  whether  this  figure 
were  a  high  or  a  low  one. 

And  now  groan,  as  I  groaned,  when  you  look  at  the  four 
days  between  June  29th  and  July  3rd — those  four  days  in 
which,  in  order  that  he  might  be  at  the  very  top  of  his  power 
for  the  writing  of  his  book,  he  had  vehemently  denied  his 
age,  had  juggled  with  it,  wrestled  with  it,  refused  it,  ignored 
it,  vowed  that  a  false  middle  was  or  should  Be  a  true  one, 
and  had  hung  as  it  were  to  a  strap  while  the  whole  momen- 
tum of  his  being  had  tried  to  sway  him  in  another  direction. 

The  entry  for  those  four  days  was  a  mere  question-mark 
with  an  open  choice.  It  read: 

"Thirty-three— thirty  ?" 

And  yet  on  the  fifth  day  he  had  been  twenty-nine ! 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


189 


Now  let  us  take  the  queried  figures  separately  and  subtract. 

If  on  the  fourth  day  he  had  been  the  lower  figure — thirty 
— then  he  had  only  dropped  a  year  in  a  night. 

But  if  on  the  fourth  day  he  had  been  thirty-three,  then 
he  had  dropped  four  whole  years  in  the  same  time. 

Either  was  possible,  and  yet  in  the  one  case  the  ratio  was, 
appallingly,  four  times  as  great  as  in  the  other. 

And  now  that  I  was  getting  to  the  root  of  the  matter  I 
wished  to  take  nothing  for  granted.  His  equations  were 
high  above  my  head,  but  I  reviewed  the  position  in  terms  of 
my  own.  This  is  how  I  set  it  out : 


I  HAD  ALREADY  KNOWN 

That  by  June  8th  he  had 
slipped  back  from  forty-five 
to  thirty-five. 

That  on  Wednesday,  June  30th, 
Julia  had  been  scheming  to 
make  herself  his  secretary. 


THE  DIARY  NOW  TOLD 

ME 

That  his  "straphanging"  age 
three  weeks  later  (on  June 
29th)  was  "thirty-three — 
thirty." 

In  a  pathetic  little  jotting  of 
the  same  date,  that  he  feared 
he  would  never  write  his 
book,  that  he  was  "getting 
too  young  for  it,"  but  that  he 
intended  to  attempt  it  at  all 
costs. 

That  he  now  doubted  whether 
what  he  had  at  first  thought 
to  be  will-power  had  really 
been  that  at  all ;  in  fact,  that 
the  real  effort  of  will  would 
have  been,  not  to  put  his 
work  out  of  his  head  for  a 
couple  of  days,  but  to  re- 
member it. 

At  this  point  I  began  to  grow  excited.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  at  last  I  began  to  see  light.  I  had  taken  him  step  by 
step  from  the  starting-point  of  June  8th  to  the  evening  of 
Saturday,  July  3rd,  and  the  reason  I  had  not  gone  beyond 
that  date  was  that  the  diary  itself  stopped  there.  Its  last 


That  on  the  following  Friday 
and  Saturday,  at  my  house, 
he  had  been  vivid,  momen- 
tary, intense. 


190  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

entry  was  the  one  I  have  just  given — that  he  feared  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  supposing  that  will-power  had  had  any- 
thing whatever  to  do  with  that  stolen  week-end's  holiday. 

Oh,  had  there  but  been  one,  one  single  entry  dated  Sunday, 
July  4th ! 

For  if  it  was  possible  for  him  to  shuffle  off  four  years  in 
what  I  may  call  an  ordinary  night,  what  was  impossible  after 
an  experience  as  stupefying  as  had  been  his  on  the  night  of 
Saturday-Sunday  ? 

And  yet  in  appearance  it  had  not  altered  him.  I  had  spent 
practically  the  whole  of  Sunday  with  him,  and  there  had 
been  nothing  to  indicate  that  he  was  not  still  twenty-nine. 
His  manner,  it  is  true,  had  been  alternately  jumpy  and  mo- 
rose, but  that  might  have  been  the  mere  vague  pull  of  his 
Wanderjahre.  Therefore  it  looked  as  if  that  mad  onslaught 
of  Julia's  on  his  stability  had  passed  him  over  after  all. 

Ah,  but  wait  a  moment!  ...  I  sat  up  at  my  desk,  vocifer- 
ating the  words  aloud.  Were  we  at  such  a  dead  end  after 
all?  Perhaps  not.  .  .  . 

And  first  of  all  I  remembered  that  question  I  had  asked 
him  about  the  flash-lamp  as  he  had  stood  behind  the  screen 
of  rugosa  roses  on  the  Sunday  afternoon.  "Has  there  been 
a  moment  since  yesterday  when  that  lamp  has  been  held  as 
close  as  it  could  be  held?"  Again  I  saw  his  sudden  pallor. 
Again  I  felt  his  clutch  on  my  shoulder,  again  heard  his  faint 
"George — I've  been  trying  to  remember  ...  the  lamp  .  .  . 
very  close  .  .  .  touching  .  .  .  one  intense  brilliant  spot  .  .  . 
but  I  swear  I  never  moved  it  ...  it  was  as  if  somebodv 
took  the  torch  out  of  my  hand  .  .  .  somebody  meddled  in 
my  life.  .  .  ." 

And  he  had  made  me  go  through  his  Saturday  evening's 
programme  again — his  inspection  of  the  Hogarths,  his  un- 
usual wakefulness,  the  hour  at  which  he  had  gone  upstairs. 

Only  for  a  few  moments  on  the  Sunday  morning  had  he 
seemed  dimly  to  surmise  that  something  of  the  last  impor- 
tance might  have  happened  to  him  during  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness. He  had  then  forgotten  all  about  it. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  191 

Nevertheless,  would  not  his  next  rejuvenation  date,  not 
the  moment  of  the  fact  itself,  but  from  that  of  the  beginning 
of  his  realisation  of  it? 

No — no — I  was  not  quite  right  even  yet.  Even  that  mo- 
ment of  wild  fear,  so  quickly  gone  again,  was  not  the  moment 
I  sought.  Even  after  that  he  might  to  all  appearances  have 
remained  twenty-nine  for  some  hours  longer. 

For  his  change  happened  while  he  slept,  and  I  had  not 
reckoned  with  that  sleep  that  must  come  in  between. 

His  next  sleep  had  been,  not  in  my  house,  but  in  Trench- 
ard's  loft. 

Monday  morning,  July  $th,  had  been  his  new  starting- 
point,  and  that  day  he  had  disappeared. 

You  have  now  all  the  material  dates  that  I  had.  You 
know  that  in  comparatively  uneventful,  unexciting  circum- 
stances he  could  go  back  four  years  in  a  night.  And  I  have 
told  you  of  the  headlong  role  Julia  Oliphant  had  taken  upon 
herself. 

How  old,  then,  was  Derwent  Rose  when  he  woke  up  in 
Trenchard's  rooms  on  the  morning  of  Monday,  July  5th, 
1920? 

Twenty-five  ? 

Twenty  ? 

Or  sixteen  and  already  dead? 


II 

I  now  turn  to  that  portion  of  the  diary  that  seemed  to  con- 
firm my  impression  that  he  had  gone  to  France. 

Both  his  memories,  "A"  and  "B,"  appeared  so  far  to  be 
functioning  normally.  In  order  to  ascertain  this  he  had 
applied  a  number  of  ingenious  tests  to  himself.  But  it  im- 
mediately struck  me  that  while  all  his  "A"  (or  Age)  notes 
were  written  in  English,  all  those  in  the  "B"  (or  Boyhood) 
direction  were  in  French. 

And  not  only  was  the  language  French.    The  illustrations 


192  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

and  incidents  were  French  in  character  also.  Thus,  he  wrote 
in  English:  "Have  been  trying  to  see  how  much  of  Esau  I 
can  remember  without  looking  at  the  book" ;  but  of  some- 
thing that  had  once  happened  in  Marseilles  I  read :  "Je  tache 
de  me  debrouiller  de  ces  souvenirs-ci."  There  might  have 
been  purpose  in  this  alternation  of  the  two  languages,  but  I 
was  more  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  done  it  purely  instinc- 
tively. When  a  man  speaks  a  language  as  Derwent  Rose 
spoke  French  he  finds  a  pleasure  in  the  mere  exercise  of  his 
attainment.  France  had  always  attracted  him,  he  had  not 
unlimited  money  at  his  disposal,  and  mere  considerations  of 
ordinary  time  (an  intensely  special  thing  to  him)  might  pre- 
clude his  getting  more  than  a  few  hours'  journey  away. 
Anyway,  with  one  thing  and  another,  I  had  chanced  it,  and 
guessed  that  somewhere  on  the  north  coast  of  France  would 
find  him. 

"And  you're  going  over  there  to  stay  with  the  Airds," 
Julia  mused.    "Then  there's  just  a  possibility — 

"Oh,  the  whole  coast  will  be  swarming  with  English  by  the 
end  of  the  month." 

"Still— 

"Do  you  want  me  to  let  you  know  if  I   come  across  him  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  leave  it  to  you.     Do  just  as  you 
think.    When  are  you  going?" 

"On  the  thirtieth." 

"What  about  his  money?" 

"Oh,  he  needn't  worry  about  that." 

"George"— she  looked  at  me  accusingly— "I  believe  you've 
bought  those  things  of  his  yourself." 

"Bought's  hardly  the  word,"  I  laughed.     "Anyway,  why 
shouldn't  I?" 

"And  you're  going  to  finance  him." 

"Well,  the  man's  got  to  eat.     And  Carpentier  mnght  knock 
him  out." 

She  looked  away  down  the  crowded  tea-room  and  made 
no  reply. 

She  herself  had  chosen  the  Piccadilly,  and  I  looked  at  her 
again  as  she  sat  there,  tucked  away  in  a  far  corner  of  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  193 

room,  with  merry  parties  at  the  neighbouring  tables  and 
De  Groot  playing  the  "Relicario."  She  was  differently  and 
quite  brilliantly  dressed.  As  far  as  externals  could  assist 
her,  she  appeared  to  have  resolved  to  go  back  step  by  step 
and  hand  in  hand  with  Derwent  Rose.  Her  furs  were 
thrown  back,  showing  the  V-shaped  opening  of  her  brown 
charmeuse,  perfectly  plain  except  for  a  tiny  bronze  beading 
at  the  edge  and  a  lump  of  amber  on  a  fine  gold  chain.  Her 
arms  were  dropped  over  the  sides  of  her  chair,  making  from 
throat  and  dropped  shoulders  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers  one 
mantle-like  flowing  line.  Her  dark  hair  was  arranged  after 
a  different  fashion,  and  on  it  was  a  little  brown  brocade 
toque  with  owl's  ears  sticking  out.  About  her  younger 
women  chattered  and  laughed,  but  among  them  she  seemed 
to  be — I  hardly  know  how  to  express  it — above  rather  than 
out  of  the  picture,  architecture  to  their  building,  a  contralto 
melody  underrunning  their  treble  and  fragmentary  tunes,  a 
white  marble  against  which  their  fountains  glittered  and 
rainbowed  and  splashed.  No  shawls,  worsted  stockings  and 
hot  milk  here !  If  Derry  must  be  young,  she  too  would  be 
as  young  as  clothes  could  make  her.  And  I  could  not  deny 
her  success. 

Not  a  word  had  I  said  to  her  about  my  discovery  of  his 
diary.  I  did  not  see  what  help  it  would  be  to  do  so.  It  could 
only  open  up  the  rather  dreadful  question,  whether,  in  sud- 
denly thrusting  into  the  infinitely-delicate  mechanism  of  his 
progression  no  less  potent  a  factor  than  herself,  she  had  not 
brought  irreparable  ruin  upon  him.  More  and  more  I  had 
begun  to  fear  that  this  might  be  so.  I  have  already  said  how 
little  I  was  concerned  with  the  mere  right  or  wrong  of  her 
theft,  gift,  or  whatever  else  she  liked  to  call  it.  That  was 
swept  aside  in  the  singularity  of  the  whole  catastrophe.  But 
for  him  I  was  deeply  anxious.  I  could  not  shake  off  the 
impression  that  this  time  he  must  have  "dropped"  very  heav- 
ily indeed.  I  thought  I  knew  now  why  he  had  not  tele- 
graphed for  that  diary.  It  was  of  little  further  use  to  him. 
He  had  begun  it  with  that  torch  at  the  cool  and  wide  and 
"philosophic"  range;  he  had  continued  it  at  the  "emotional" 


194  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

focus  of  keen  and  rapid  sensation ;  but  at  that  point  the  diary 
had  stopped.  There  was  no  entry  since  Julia  Oliphant,  see- 
ing her  Eden  twice  and  no  angel  with  a  naming  sword 
guarding  this  unsuspected  postern  of  it,  had  set  all  a-flux  in 
one  blinding  spot  of  irrevocable  contact.  Could  the  torch, 
after  that  climax,  ever  be  withdrawn  again?  Was  he  at  this 
moment  burning  out  the  residue  of  his  youth  at  its  whitest 
heat  of  combustion  ?  W'as  he,  since  that  last  sleep  in  Trench- 
ard's  place,  rushing  through  the  months  and_years  so  swiftly 
as  to  gasp  for  very  breath  ? 

And  if  so,  what  were  those  experiences  that  swept  down 
on  him  in  one  wild  blurr  of  things  long  since  finished  with, 
unrepeatable  in  their  original  form,  and  yet  inevitably  to  be 
repeated  in  that  form  or  in  another  ? 

To  all  this  Julia  was  still  the  key.  One  or  two  trivia  in 
his  diary  apart,  she  was  the  only  key.  She  it  was  who  had 
received  those  letters  of  his  from  Nimes,  Aries,  Trieste,  and 
who  farther  back  still  had  known  his  childhood,  its  happiness, 
aspirations,  beliefs,  dreams.  "Whatever  soil  he  trod  at  this 
moment  he  must  still  be  the  boy  she  had  known  in  a  Sussex 
village.  French  stained-glass  instead  of  English  might  hold 
his  rapt  eyes,  the  organ  of  a  High  Mass  evoke  raptures  in  his 
Anglican  heart,  but  he  was  still  the  same. 

And,  before  that  stage  was  reached,  the  wild  and  reckless 
English  years  might  even  now  be  re-enacting  themselves 
somewhere  in  the  Pas  de  Calais,  Ille-et-Vilaine  or  the  Cote 
du  Nord. 

And  she  who  had  given  that  extra  spin  to  the  already 
whizzing  wheel  of  his  fate  sat  there  in  the  Piccadilly,  her 
head  a  little  back,  her  lips  a  little  parted,  her  dark  eyes 
sensitised  to  all  the  glitter  of  the  room,  the  fingers  of  one 
down-hung  hand  moving  in  time  to  Raquel's  song. 

Suddenly  I  broke  in  on  her  mood. 

"Julia.  As  a  practical  matter.  How  do  you  suppose  he 
got  to  France?  It  isn't  easy  for  a  man  without  papers  of 
any  kind,  you  know." 

"Oh,  he'd  get  there  if  he  wanted  to,"  she  answered,  the 
fingers  still  beating  time. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  195 

"Easy  enough  to  talk,  but  we  may  as  well  look  at  the  prac- 
tical side  of  it.  He'll  have  to." 

"If  you  mean  his  money,  that's  very  nice  of  you,  George, 
but  I  thought  that  was  all  arranged?  Or  do  you  mean  that, 
as  he  used  to  write  to  me  before  he  may  do  so  again?  If 
that's  it  you  can  hand  his  money  over  to  me." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.    I  was  thinking " 

But  she  interrupted  me  vivaciously.  "Oh,  look  at  that 
woman  in  the  cloak  just  getting  up !  That's  rather  a  wrap, 
isn't  it  ?  And  I  wonder  whether  I  could  wear  those  shoes ! 
.  .  .  Now  that's  what  I  call  having  the  best  of  both  worlds, 
George.  She's  all  the  advantages  of  that  flapper  with  the 
nice  fair-haired  boy  there — the  one  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
showing  her  garters — as  well  as  being  a  woman.  But  per- 
haps she  isn't  your  type.  Men  do  run  to  types,  don't  they  ? 
.  .  .  George,  you're  not  listening.  I  asked  you  whether  men 
ran  to  types." 

"If  you  mean  do  I,  you've  had  most  of  my  time  lately." 

"Don't  be  silly.  I  mean  women  men  are  in  love  with. 
Or  are  you  all  ready  to  toy  with  anything  that  comes  along?" 

"I  thought  that  you  said  the  end  of  that  man  was  that  he 
knew  nothing  about  women." 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  telling  me  what  I  used  to  say!" 
She  tossed  the  little  cap  with  the  owl's  ears.  "At  any  rate 
I  don't  talk  the  same  folly  twice.  Life's  too  short.  Do  you 
like  my  hat?" 

"Very  charming." 

"Not  absurd  on  me?  Nor  the  way  I've  done  my  hair  for 
it?  I'm  not  mutton-dressed-as-lamb ?  And  you  haven't 
seen  my  shoes " 

Round  the  leg  of  her  chair  she  pushed  a  suede  sheath  slen- 
der as  one  of  the  willow-leaves  on  my  pond. 

"I  do  hold  my  own?  Among  all  these  smooth  hairs  and 
pretty  complexions?  I  haven't  got  a  touch  of  powder  on; 
do  you  think  I  should?  Don't  flatter;  honestly;  should  I  be 
all  right  if  I  met  Derry?" 

I  looked  at  her  without  smiling.    "Which  Derry  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  any  Derry !    Derry  at  his  maddest,  his  wildest !    Tell 


196  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

me,  George:  if  I'd  had  just  one  grain  of  sense  before  instead 
of  being  a  sloppy  art-student  he  only  remembered  once  in 
six  months,  all  flat  heels  and  hair  in  her  eyes,  thinking  that 
by  cutting  sandwiches  .  .  .  don't  you  think,  George? 
Mightn't  it  have  made  a  wee  bit  of  difference  ?  And  won't  it 
still  when— 

"When  what?" 

"Oh — any  moment!    Who  knows?" 

I  tried  to  break  the  current  of  her  infatuated  fancies. 
"Julia,  don't  you  think —  But  her  eyes  laughed  me 

down. 

"Think,  George !  .  .  .  But  this  is  thinking !  You've  no 
idea  of  the  amount  of  brain  work  there  is  in  it !  Oh,  I'm  not 
talking  about  rubbishy  books  and  pictures  now !  Why,  this 
is  all  the  thinking  I've  ever  done !" 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  whether  you  thought  that  things 
with  him  were — going  quicker  than  they  ought  to,  let  us  say." 

"Not  if  they  bring  him  back  to  me." 

"But  you  let  him  go  away." 

"Oh,  on  his  Wander jahre.  I  dare  say  that's  all  over  by 
now." 

"Then  you  do  think  he  may  have — speeded  up?" 

"It  wouldn't  surprise  me." 

"Why  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"Nothing  would  surprise  me." 

"But  this  particular  thing?" 

She  shook  with  soft  laughter.  "Oh,  George,  some  nice 
steady-going  woman — like  I  used  to  be — ought  to  adopt  you. 
.  .  .  Why,  you  stupid,  as  if  I  wasn't  willing  him  to  speed  up, 
as  you  call  it,  with  every  particle  that's  in  me,  if  only  I  can 
manage  to  be  somewhere  at  hand  when  he  gets  there !" 

I  gave  her  a  quick  look.  "Do  you  mean  that  you're  going 
to  slip  over  to  France  after  all?"  I  demanded. 

"No.  Wasn't  thinking  of  it.  As  far  as  I  know  at  present 
I  shall  just  stay  here.  But,"  she  said  meaningly,  "if  I  were 
going  anywhere  it  wouldn't  be  France." 

"Where  would  it  be?" 

"Belgium." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  197 

"Belgium's  about  the  last  place  anybody  with  his  war- 
experience  would  go  to  for  a  holiday." 

"What,  Antwerp  in  August?" 

"I  don't  see.    Sorry." 

"Aren't  they  holding  the  Olympic  games  there  ?" 

"Ah!  .  .  .  So  you  think  they  might  draw  him ?" 

"I  didn't  say  so.  I  don't  know  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  I 
should  go  to  Antwerp  either.  But  you  once  asked  me 
whether  I  thought  I  could  bring  him  by  just  sitting  still  and 
loving  him.  Well" — a  victorious  smile — "I  almost  believe  I 
could — now.  But  I  shouldn't  cut  him  sandwiches — now.  I 
shouldn't  be  just  somebody  he  remembered  when  he  was  at 
a  loose  end — now.  I'd  have  him  keen,  George-old-Thing. 
He'd  think  anything  I  gave  him  a  devil  of  a  favour.  Look 
at  that  wise  young  minx  with  the  garters  there;  I'd  have  him 
to  heel  as  she  has  her  boy.  Look,  she's  having  a  cocktail. 
Order  me  a  cocktail,  please." 

"Which?    Martini?    Manhattan?    Bronx?" 

"I  dunno.  Never  tasted  one  in  my  life.  But  I'm  not  too 
proud  to  learn.  And — Geordie" — she  shot  a  sidelong  glance 
at  me — "I've  half  a  mind  to  begin  practising  on  you !" 

"Well — if  that  will  keep  you  from  practising  on  anybody 
else " 

"You  think  you'd  be  safe,  George?" 

"Wretchedly  safe." 

All  at  once  the  hectic  manner  seemed  to  fall  from  her.  A 
little  incision  appeared  for  a  moment  between  her  brows. 
She  pressed  it  away  again  with  her  fingers. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  can't  say  ours 
isn't  an  extraordinary  relation.  It's  safe  to  say  there's  noth- 
ing like  it  in  this  room." 

Nor  anywhere  else,  I  thought;  and  I  was  glad  to  think 
so.  I  am  an  average,  more  or  less  straight-living  man,  with 
a  bias  towards  virtue  rather  than  the  other  way ;  but  almost 
any  relation,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  to  be  preferred  to  this 
unnatural  inhibition  that  had  so  singularly  little  to  do  with 
virtue.  Allow  me,  as  a  man  who  possibly  has  been  nearer 
to  these  things  than  you  have,  to  give  you  a  little  advice. 


198  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Avoid,  by  all  means  in  your  power,  contact  with  a  man  who 
has  put  over  the  reversing-gear  of  his  life  as  Derwent  Rose 
had  done.  He  will  land  you  in  his  own  net.  Unless  you  are 
more  magnificently  steady  than  I,  even  when  it  comes  to  your 
relations  with  an  admirable  woman  you  will  find  yourself 
interfered  with  at  every  step  you  take.  Even  the  evil  that 
you  would  you  do  not,  and  the  good  that  you  would  not, 
that  you  do. 

But  it  was  a  question  of  her  rather  than  of  me.  I  was  only 
at  the  fringe  of  the  moral  commotion  Derwent  Rose  had 
made  on  this  planet.  She  was  deliberately  advancing  on  its 
very  storm-centre.  And  in  the  very  nature  of  things  she  was 
doomed  to  frustration.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  already 
frustrated  herself.  For  suppose  she  should  succeed  in  her 
aim,  and  should  pull  off — well,  whatever  Rose  had  hinted  at 
when  he  had  spoken  of  Andalusian  dancers  and  tilted  mir- 
rors in  Marseilles  sailors'  kens.  What  then  ?  That  had  not 
been  Derwent  Rose !  "Je  tache  de  me  debrouiller  de  ces 
souvenirs-ci."  Where  was  her  success,  seeing  that  it  had 
been  the  greatest  of  his  dreads  that  he  must  re-live  that 
dingy  phase  before  finding  the  lovelier  Derwent  Rose  who 
dwelt  away  on  the  other  side  ? 

Therefore,  do  what  she  would,  her  lot  was  as  predestined 
as  his  own.  Her  successive  roles  awaited  her  also — sister, 
aunt,  elderly  friend.  But  the  way  to  Eden — ah,  that  she 
would  terribly  contrive !  He,  sick  with  a  twice-lived  anxiety, 
might  turn  away  from  his  fence ;  but  she  approached  it 
from  the  other  side.  Dust  and  ashes  to  him  were  all  entice- 
ment to  her.  Once  already  she  had  put  herself  in  his  way; 
but  what  was  once?  .  .  .  Ah,  these  inappeasable  human 
hearts  of  ours !  We  cry  "Give  me  but  this,  Lord,  and  I  ask 
no  more."  But,  having  it,  we  must  have  more.  "Nay,  Lord, 
so  quickly  gone?"  .  .  .  She  recked  not  that  presently  his 
sins  would  be  all  un-sinned  again,  while  her  own  would  be 
upheaped  an  hundredfold.  Her  lot  was  his.  Jointly  they 
advanced  on  a  common  fate.  When  all  was  over  she  would 
put  off  those  crafty  garments  again.  But  until  then  he  was 
to  be  tripped — at  his  maddest,  at  his  wildest. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  199 

"Julia,"  I  said  with  a  failing  voice,  "for  his  sake  can't 
you  let  it  rest?" 

She  turned  quickly.    "What  do  you  mean — for  his  sake  ?" 

"For  pity  of  him — perhaps  even  for  his  life." 

She  broke  out,  softly,  but  with  a  concentration  of  energy 
that  I  can  hardly  express. 

"For  pity  of  him!  And  why  of  him?  What  about  me? 
Why  do  you  try  to  separate  us  ?  We  never  were  separated 
really.  All  that  ever  separated  us  was  my  own  ignorance 
and  conceit  and  not  having  the  right  hair !  I'll  bob  it — I'll 
peroxide  it — I'll  do  anything — but  I'm  not  going  to  stop 
now !" 

I  tried  to  quieten  her,  but  she  went  passionately  on. 

"Pity  of  him!  Why,  it's  for  pity  of  him  that  I'm  doing 
it !  Why  should  he  for  ever  give,  give,  give,  and  get  nothing 
in  return?  He  never  did  get  anything — nothing  out  of  his 
books,  nothing  out  of  his  life,  only  this  one  magnificent  thing 
that's  happened!  He's  flung  pearls  away,  all  the  splendid 
pearls  of  himself,  flung  them  to  the  grunters  as  they  did  in 
the  Bible,  and  all  they  wanted  was  common  greasy  farthings  ! 
Farthings  would  have  done,  and  he  showered  pearls  on  'em ! 
And  not  one  single  thing  did  he  ever  get  back !  Oh,  it  makes 
me  boil !  .  .  .  But  I've  picked  up  a  wrinkle  or  two  since 
then,  George!  Nobody  ever  told  me  anything  about  life, 
nothing  that  was  true.  They  told  me  that  if  I  opened  my 
mouth  and  shut  my  eyes  and  never  forgot  that  I'd  been  nicely 
brought  up  all  sorts  of  lovely  things  would  come  of  them- 
selves. Nobody  ever  told  me  I  should  have  to  get  up  and  get 
and  fight  for  my  own  hand.  I  was  to  speak  when  I  was 
spoken  to,  and  what  did  it  matter  how  I  did  my  hair  or  what 
sort  of  shoes  I  wore  as  long  as  men  understood  I  was  a  nice 
girl  and  not  to  be  taken  liberties  with?  They  took  their 
liberties  somewhere  else  we  weren't  supposed  to  know  any- 
thing about.  The  un-nice  girls  got  the  insults — and  the 
pearls.  We  just  went  on  being  respected,  and  sometimes, 
if  we'd  been  very  nice  indeed,  one  of  us  would  get  a  greasy 
farthing  after  all  the  pearls  were  gone.  They  called  that 
marriage,  and  said  it  was  the  crown  of  a  woman's  life. 


200  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

That's  what  we  were  taught,  George.  That's  what  every 
woman  of  my  age  was  taught.  And  look  at  Peggy  there  get- 
ting away  with  it  as  fast  as  she  can !" 

I  touched  her  sleeve,  but  she  refused  to  be  stopped. 

"And  it  was  all  my  own  fault  for  believing  them.  I  ought 
to  have  thought  it  out  for  myself,  like  Peggy.  It  was  my 
job,  and  I  didn't  do  it.  I  painted  idiotic  canvases  instead. 
It  wasn't  Berry's  job.  It  isn't  any  man's  job.  I'd  been 
throwing  sheep' s-eyes  at  him  all  my  life;  why  didn't  I  say 
to  myself,  'Look  here,  Julia  my  girl,  this  doesn't  appear  to 
be  working  somehow.  Cutting  sandwiches  and  letting  him 
pose  for  you  and  mooning  about  him  afterwards  isn't  doing 
the  trick.  You  know  he's — obtainable — because  you  know 
other  women  do  it.  What's  the  matter  with  you!" — I  ought 
to  have  asked  myself  that,  and  I  didn't.  I  let  myself  drift 
into  being  a  'good  sort'  to  him.  Stupidest  thing  a  woman 
can  do.  I  expect  he'd  have  thought  it  a  sort  of  sacrilege  to 
kiss  me.  Sacrilege! " 

She  checked  contemptuously  at  the  word,  but  went  straight 
on. 

"And  now  this  has  happened,  just  to  him  and  me,  and  if 
it  never  happened  before,  all  the  more  gorgeous  luck !  He 
shall  have  something  back  for  his  life.  He  shall  know  what 
love  is  before  he  dies.  You  can  go  to  anybody  you  like  for 
your  portrait,  George;  Peggy  and  I  are  out  for  blood. 
What's  the  good  of  having  luck  if  you  don't  believe  in  it? 
If  being  nice  didn't  work  let's  have  a  shot  at  the  other  thing. 
(Ah,  so  that's  a  cocktail!)  So  that's  that,  George.  Some- 
thing's bound  to  happen.  He'll  be  writing  to  me  or  some- 
thing ;  I'm  not  worrying  in  the  least.  .  .  .  But  I  mustn't  let 
my  neck  get  all  pink  like  this  just  with  thinking  of  him." 
She  fetched  out  a  little  mirror  and  a  puff.  "Nice  girls  used 
to  do  that,  and  it  was  called  maiden  modesty,  and  I'm 
damned  if  it  paid.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  learn,  either  from 
Peggy  with  her  garters  or  anybody  else.  ...  Ah,  she's  get- 
ting up !  I  must  see  her  close  to " 

She  was  on  her  feet.  I  heard  her  murmur,  "I'm  taller 
than  she  is  anyway " 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  201 

"Sit  down  till  I've  got  the  waiter,"  I  said. 

But  she  continued  to  stand.  She  was  looking  after  the 
girl  she  had  called  Peggy — erect,  ready,  perilously  in- 
structed, a  beautiful  danger.  .Her  life  had  been  one  unvary- 
ing, starry  lamp  of  love ;  now,  for  the  beguiling  of  the  Derry 
of  those  onrushing  years  of  the  heat  of  his  blood,  a  hundred 
false  fires  were  being  prepared.  And  I  could  only  remain 
silent  at  the  wonder  of  it,  that  all  was  one,  and  that  the  false 
was  no  less  true  than  the  true. 


Ill 

It  still  wanted  a  week  to  the  thirtieth,  but  I  had  various 
matters  to  set  in  order,  and  the  time  passed  quickly.  I  saw 
Julia  once  more  before  I  left.  She  still  nonchalantly  left  it 
to  me,  should  I  come  across  Derry,  to  let  her  know  or  not,  as 
I  thought  best.  She  herself  was  not  going  very  far — merely 
into  Buckingham  to  stay  with  friends.  She  gave  me  dates 
and  addresses,  and  then  her  manner  seemed  to  me  to  show 
some  hesitation. 

"If  he  should  write  to  me  for  money  suddenly,"  she  said. 
"You  see,  you  won't  be  at  hand." 

"Oh,  that's  all  arranged.  He  wouldn't  wait  till  he  was 
actually  starving  before  he  wrote,  and  Mrs  Moxon  is  re- 
addressing all  letters  immediately." 

"But  suppose  he  wrote  to  me.     I've  no  money." 

"Then  you  can  wire  me.     I'll  arrange  for  a  sight-draft." 

Her  hands  smoothed  down  the  body  of  a  frock  I  had  not 
seen  before — a  sooty  shower  of  black  chiffon  over  I  know 
not  what  intricately-simple  and  expensive-looking  swathing 
below. 

"I  believe  you're  afraid  to  trust  me  with  his  money,"  she 
smiled,  preening  herself. 

This  conversation,  I  ought  to  say,  took  place  in  her  studio. 
Suddenly  I  looked  up. 

"Julia,"  I  demanded,  "where's  that  tallboy  gone?" 

"The  tallboy  ?     Oh,  it's  somewhere  about  the  place." 


202  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"On  your  back?" 

"Not  all  of  it.  Some  of  it's  on  my  feet.  Don't  you  like 
them  ?" 

She  showed  them.     I  turned  away. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "if  he's  selling  furniture  to  pay  for  a  holi- 
day, and  you're  selling  it  to  buy  frocks,  I  certainly  shan't 
trust  you  with  a  penny.  If  he  writes  to  you  you'd  better 
wire  me." 

"Poor  Julia !"  she  laughed.  "When  she  was  sensible  she 
could  do  nothing  right,  and  now  that  she's  quite  mad  she's 
as  wrong  as  ever.  Well,  a  short  life  and  a  gay  one.  Good- 
bye, George,  and  a  happy  holiday — 

So  the  evening  of  the  thirtieth  found  me  on  the  St  Malo 
boat,  hoping  it  wasn't  going  to  rain — for  I  had  looked  down 
below  and  preferred  the  deck.  Smoothly  we  glided  down 
Southampton  Water.  The  boat  was  packed,  and  I  was  un- 
able to  dine  till  ten  o'clock.  Then  I  came  up  on  deck  again 
and  set  about  making  myself  comfortable  for  the  night. 

It  did  rain,  but  I  was  well  tucked  away  in  the  shelter  of  a 
deck-house,  and  was  little  the  worse  for  it.  A  fresh  south- 
west wind  blew,  and  I  watched  the  phantom-grey  water  that 
hissed  and  rustled  hoarsely  past  our  sides.  The  throbbing 
of  the  engines  began  to  beat  softly  and  incessantly  in  my 
head,  and  half  dozing,  I  found  myself  wondering  what  Derry 
had  done  about  his  passport.  "Throb-throb,"  churned  the 
engines  .  .  .  perhaps  he  had  forged  himself  a  seaman's  and 
fireman's  ticket,  signed  on  as  a  deckhand  or  stoker,  and  had 
given  the  L.S.W.  Railway  Company  the  slip  the  moment  he 
had  got  across.  Dreamily,  muffled  up  in  my  wrappings,  I 
tried  to  picture  it.  He  would  be  careful.  He  would  be 
careful  about  his  beard,  for  example.  He  would  let  it  grow 
a  day  or  so  before ;  perhaps  he  would  now  continue  to  wear 
a  beard.  Unless.  .  .  .  And  he  would  sleep  the  day  before 
and  stoke  through  the  night.  A  stoker  for  a  night,  dressed 
in  a  boiler-suit  or  stripped  to  the  waist,  as  he  had  stripped 
when  he  had  held  Julia  Oliphant's  sewing-machine  aloft. 
And  grime  in  his  golden  beard.  Or  else  the  author  of  The 
Vicarage  of  Bray  bending  the  warp  on  to  the  drum  of  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  203 

steam-winch  or  putting  the  luggage  in  the  slings  in  the  hold. 
Oh,  as  she  had  said,  he  would  get  across  somehow  if  he 
wanted  to.  .  ... 

And  once  across  he  would  have  very  little  trouble.  He 
would  mingle  with  the  porters  and  camionneurs,  carrying 
his  gear  in  his  hand.  Probably  he  would  pretend  it  was 
somebody  else's.  Then — the  small  luggage  through  first 
— rien  a  declarer — his  perfect  French — he  would  be  along 
the  quay  and  in  the  vedette  before  they  had  begun  to  get  the 
big  stuff  out  of  the  hold.  As  for  his  passport — oh,  he  would 
manage.  .  .  . 

An  employe  picked  his  way  through  the  dark  huddles  on 
the  deck,  took  the  reading  of  the  log,  and  retired  again.  The 
masthead  lights  made  loops  and  circles  in  the  rain.  I  took 
a  nip  from  my  flask  and  dropped  back  into  my  doze.  Alder- 
ney  Light  winked,  and  up  the  Race  it  blew  stiffly.  .  .  . 

Yes,  he  would  get  across  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to. 
As  for  his  permis  de  sejour — oh,  things  like  that  were  for 
ordinary  people.  What  would  he  do  with  a  permis  de  sejour 
who  had  no  permis  de  sejour  in  life  itself,  but  must  doubly 
dodge  through  it,  from  this  place  to  that  and  from  one  date 
to  the  date  before?  .  .  .  But  I  rather  fancied  he  had  gone 
by  Dover.  Certain  notes  almost  at  the  end  of  his  diary 
seemed  an  indication  of  that.  These  notes  had  no  coherence 
— just  odd  words  like  "Lord  Warden,"  "boat,"  "tide,"  and  a 
little  time-table  of  figures.  Apparently  he  had  worked  it  out 
just  before  that  week-end  he  had  spent  with  me.  .  .  .  "Lord 
Warden" — that  meant  Dover — tide — time.  .  .  .  Again  the 
Company's  man  came  to  take  the  reading  of  the  log.  Again 
the  throbbing  of  the  engines  evoked  the  image  of  Derry, 
stripped,  moving  in  the  red  glare  of  the  furnaces,  sweating, 
coal-dust  in  his  beard.  But  perhaps  he  no  longer  had  a 
beard.  Perhaps  Julia  had  made  sure  of  that.  Julia,  des- 
perate creature,  wild,  disturbing  creature.  .  .  .  Peggy  in  her 
garters  .  .  .  selling  furniture  to  buy  frocks,  shoes,  stock- 
ings, scent.  .  .  .  "Pour  Troubler,"  "Mysterieuse"  .  .  . 
"Mystertnuv,  M.ysterieuse,  M.ysterieuse"  sighed  the  water 
rushing  past.  .  .  .  And  in  the  Piccadilly,  that  long  white 


204  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

throat,  the  fine  angle  of  her  jaw,  among  little  double  chins, 
little  buttons  of  chins,  short  necks,  thrust-forward  necks, 
square  shoulders  instead  of  that  long  mantle-like  line  down 
over  her  shoulders  like  swift  water  before  it  breaks,  to  the 
fingers  that  moved  softly  in  time  to  the  "Relicario"  .  .  .  the 
"Relicario"  .  .  .  De  Groot  .  .  .  De  Groot,  De  Groot,  De 
Groot.  .  .  .  Mysterieuse,  Mysterieuse.  .  .  .  Again  the  read- 
ing of  the  log,  again  the  sailor's  return  through  the  dozing 
huddles  on  the  deck ;  the  phantom-grey  water  rustling  hoarse- 
ly past,  the  masthead  lights  swinging  aloft.  I  hate  these 
short  and  crowded  crossings  when  it  is  hardly  worth  while 
to  take  off  your  clothes  and  you  arrive  cramped,  crumpled, 
unshaven,  unrefreshed.  I  wondered  how  early  it  would  be 
possible  to  get  a  cup  of  tea.  A  cup  of  tea — a  cocktail — cock- 
tails for  tea — "So  that's  a  cocktail !" — Manhattan,  Manhat- 
tan, De  Groot,  De  Groot,  De  Groot.  .  .  . 

Another  pull  at  my  flask,  and  then  I  really  did  sleep. 

The  day  was  grey  when  I  awoke.  The  huddles  on  the 
deck  had  begun  to  stir.  The  east  kindled,  as  I  had  last  seen 
it  kindle  over  the  Devil's  Punch  Bowl  and  Gibbet  Hill.  The 
sun  flashed  on  the  waves,  on  people  bestirring  themselves, 
opening  dressing-cases,  making  such  toilets  as  they  could. 
Then  I  heard  the  welcome  click  of  teacups  and  flung  off  my 
rugs.  I  went  below,  secured  a  seat  for  breakfast,  and  made 
myself  less  unpresentable.  Hot  breakfast,  after  all,  goes  a 
long  way  towards  obliterating  the  discomforts  of  a  night  on 
deck.  As  I  rose  from  the  table  I  glanced  through  the  open 
port.  Pale  on  the  starboard  bow  was  the  long  line  of  Cap 
Frehel,  ahead  was  St  Malo's  spire. 


FRANCE 


PART  I 
THE  LONG  SPLICE 


As  the  little  vedette  approached  Dinard  Cale — I  had  got 
quickly  through  the  Customs  and  come  across  with  the 
hampers  of  that  morning's  fish — an  Alec  Aird  out  of  a  Men's 
Summer  Catalogue  waved  his  hand  to  George  Coverham  out 
of  a  flea-bag  and  called  out  a  cheery  good  morning.  It  was 
hardly  yet  half -past  seven,  so  Alec  must  have  been  up  be- 
times. He  seized  the  two  bags  I  pushed  ashore  and  gestic- 
ulated to  the  driver  of  a  nondescript  sort  of  carosse.  Then 
he  looked  me  up  and  down  and  grinned. 

"Ready  for  breakfast  ?" 

"I'm  ready  for  some  hot  water  and  clean  clothes,"  I  re- 
plied. "No,  it  wasn't  so  bad." 

"And  is  this  all  the  stuff  you've  brought?  I  asked  you 
to  come  and  stay  with  us,  not  just  to  drop  in  to  lunch.  Well, 
up  you  get.  I  don't  suppose  you'll  see  Madge  and  Jennie 
till  midday.  That  damned  Casino ;  three  a.m.  again  last 
night.  But  it's  no  good  talking  to  Madge.  It  always  ends 
in  her  doing  just  as  she  likes.  Why,  when  I  was  Jennie's 
age  I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  roulette-table. 
...  I  say,  have  you  brought  any  English  tobacco  ?" 

I  had  not  been  in  Dinard,  nor  indeed  in  France  at  all,  since 
before  the  war;  but  the  long  steep  street  where  the  little 
dark  cafes  were  opening  seemed  very  friendly  and  familiar. 
We  rumbled  past  the  English  Club  into  the  Rue  Lavavasseur, 
and  instinctively  my  head  turned  to  the  right.  Each  short  de- 
scending street  gave  the  same  remembered  glimpse,  of  white 
casino  or  hotel  at  the  bottom  and  the  bright  emerald  beyond. 
We  clattered  down  to  the  Place,  and  then  slackened  again  to 
the  ascent  of  dark  tree-planted  avenues.  "Gauche — droit, 
I  mean — starboard  a  couple  of  points,"  directed  Alec,  whose 
French  bears  no  very  great  strain;  and  after  ten  minutes 

207 


2o8  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

or  so  the  sound  of  our  wheels  suddenly  ceased.     We  were 
on  the  soft  sandy  drive  that  ended  at  the  gate  of  Ker  Annie. 

Alec  Aird  hates  the  Casino,  partly  because  they  won't  let 
him  smoke  his  pipe  there,  partly  because  he  doesn't  like  his 
life  strung  up  to  concert-pitch  all  the  time.  But  Madge 
loves  these  vast  vestibules  of  shining  mahogany  and  cut  and 
bevelled  glass,  these  palms  that  brush  the  electric  chandeliers, 
these  broad  terraces,  all  this  bright  restlessness  of  hotels  and 
shops  and  plage.  So  they  had  split  the  difference  in  the 
villa  they  had  rented.  It  stood  high-perched  among  ilex  and 
Spanish-chestnut,  looking  out  over  the  rocks  and  islands  that 
make  of  that  bay  a  jaw  full  of  cruel  black  splintered  teeth. 
It  had  little  broken  lawns  set  with  hydrangeas  and  beds  and 
borders  of  blood-red  begonias  and  montbretia  and  geraniums 
and  marguerites,  the  whole  tilted  up  as  if  it  would  have 
spilled  over  the  rough  cliff-top  to  the  rocks  below.  The 
plage  itself  was  hidden,  but  a  little  way  out  the  translucent 
greens  began,  dappled  with  a  fairy-like  refraction  that 
brought  the  purply  shoals  almost  up  to  the  surface.  After 
that  away  northwards  spread  the  wide  sea — serene  yet  cu- 
riously wistful,  tender  yet  never  gay,  dreamily  lovely  but 
unflashing,  unglittering — the  pensive  aspect  of  a  sea  that  has 
its  back  to  the  sun. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Alec  as  we  pulled  up  in  front  of  a 
chromo-lithograph  from  a  toybox  lid,  the  villa  of  dove-grey 
with  shutters  of  a  chalky  greeny-white  and  slender  ironwork 
everywhere — grilles  of  ironwork  over  the  glazing  of  the 
double  doors,  scrolled  balcony  railings,  and  iron  passemen- 
terie along  the  ridge  of  the  mansard-roof.  "Now  look  here, 
if  you  want  to  go  to  bed  say  so,  and  we'll  all  be  Sleeping 
Beauties — confound  those  rotten  late  hours  for  that  kid— 

I  assured  him  that  I  had  no  wish  to  go  to  bed. 

"Right.  Then  come  along  upstairs,  and  sing  out  if  there's 
anything  you  want.  You'll  find  me  somewhere  about  when 
you  come  down.  And  you  might  give  me  that  tobacco — 

And,  showing  me  up  a  staircase  of  waxed  boards  into  my 
room,  he  left  me  to  my  toilet. 

The  pergola  in  which  I  found  him  three  quarters  of  an 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  209 

hour  later  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Its  roof  was 
latticed,  so  that  over  the  floor,  over  the  garden  chairs  and 
tables,  over  our  shoulders  and  hands  and  white  flannels,  lay 
an  intricate  shepherd's-plaid  of  gay  shadow  that  crept  like 
a  net  over  us  whenever  we  moved.  A  bonne  followed  me 
with  coffee  and  rolls,  and  we  sat  down  to  talk  and  to  watch 
the  flat  untwinkling  sea. 

We,  or  rather  Alec,  talked  of  Boche  rolling-stock  on 
French  lines  (did  I  tell  you  my  friend  was  by  way  of  being 
a  consulting  engineer?),  of  coasting  boats  building  at  St 
Malo,  of  France's  prospects  of  recovery  from  the  devasta- 
tion of  the  war.  He  thought  they  might  pick  up  quickly, 
applauded  the  way  they  were  putting  their  backs  into  it. 
And  it  may  have  been  my  fancy  or  the  force  of  former  as- 
sociations, but  already  I  was  conscious  of  a  different  atmos- 
phere. There  seemed  to  thrill  in  the  very  air  the  push  of  a 
logical,  practical,  unsentimental  people.  I  had  felt  it  in  the 
bustle  of  the  porters  and  camionneurs  on  St  Malo  quay,  in 
the  unyielding  Breton  eyes  of  the  fishwives  in  the  vedette, 
in  the  ten  francs  that  that  scoundrel  of  a  cocher  had  over- 
charged Alec.  It  began  to  be  impossible  to  look  over  that 
sunny  emerald  water  and  to  say  to  yourself,  "A  man  with 
two  memories  is  bathing  in  that,"  to  sit  in  the  warm  cage  of 
that  pergola  and  to  remember  a  man  who  clung  to  false  mid- 
dles and  had  extraordinary  things  happen  to  him  in  the  night. 
Beyond  the  point  a  couple  of  fishing-boats  and  a  brown- 
sailed  bisquine  appeared.  Out  toward  St  Cast  crept  an  early 
pleasure  steamer,  its  smoke  trailing  behind  it  like  a  smudge 
of  brown  worsted.  From  somewhere  behind  that  toybox  of 
a  villa  came  rapid  exchanges  in  French — the  day's  provisions 
were  arriving. 

Suddenly  Alec  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  say,  what  about 
having  a  look  in  at  the  Stade?  I  expect  there  are  a  few  of 
them  there  by  now." 

"Anything  you  like ;  what's  on  ?" 

"These  elimination-trials  for  Antwerp  next  month,"  Alec 
replied,  who  was  a  Fettes  man  and  an  International  in  his 
day,  and  is  still  a  familiar  figure  at  Twickenham  and  Black- 


210  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

heath.  "Haven't  you  seen  the  posters  ?  'Debout  les  Athletes' 
— 'Sons  of  the  Patrie'— they've  been  all  over  the  place  for 
months.  All  out  they  are  too,  and  some  dashed  good  athletes 
among  'em.  There's  one  fellow  I've  heard  of  called  Arnaud 
— haven't  seen  him — in  fact  he's  a  bit  of  a  mystery  .  .  .  but 
look  here,  we've  only  just  time  for  the  tram.  Come 
along — 

The  filthy  little  tram  took  us  to  the  Stade  in  ten  minutes. 
It  was  an  open  field,  with  tracks  and  hurdles  and  a  small 
white-painted  Grand  Stand  at  one  end  of  it,  and  already  les 
athletes  had  got  down  to  work.  There  were  perhaps  a  dozen 
of  them,  in  zephyrs  and  shorts  and  sweaters,  leaping,  prac- 
tising short  bursts  off  the  mark,  doggedly  covering  the  outer 
track  or  resting  in  twos  and  threes  on  the  grass.  Several  of 
them  wore  little  more  clothing  than  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a 
waist-sash.  They  flaunted  their  glossy  sunburnt  backs,  stood 
with  arms  folded  over  uplifted  chests,  heads  erect,  eyes  flash- 
ing, and  never  a  smile.  No  Briton  would  have  dared  to  dis- 
play such  physical  naivete.  They  might  have  been  grimly 
training,  not  for  a  sporting  contest,  but  for  a  duel  to  the 
death. 

We  watched  them  for  an  hour,  and  then  the  whooping  of 
that  horrible  little  tram  was  heard  in  the  distance.  It  hurtled 
up  to  the  Halte,  fouling  the  air  with  the  smoke  of  the  dust 
and  slate  and  slack  that  served  it  for  coal,  and  we  sat  with 
our  backs  to  the  engine  and  took  what  care  of  our  flannels 
we  might. 

The  sluggards  had  descended  by  the  time  we  reached  the 
house  again.  Among  the  harlequin  shadows  of  the  pergola 
Madge  advanced  to  me  with  both  hands  outstretched. 

"Monsieur !  Sois  le  bienvenu !"  Then,  standing  back  to 
look  at  me,  "What  nice  flannels,  George!  Some  of  the 
Frenchmen  here,  quite  nice  men,  go  about  in  the  most  ex- 
traordinary cheesecloth  arrangements,  and  as  for  their 

shoes !     Yes,  I  think  I  can  be  seen  with  you.     You  can 

take  me  shopping  this  afternoon.     I  saw  it  in  a  window 
yesterday  but  hadn't  time  to  go  in.     ('It's'  a  hat,  if  you  must 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  211 

know,  Alec.)  And  this  is  Jennie,  in  case  she's  grown  so 
much  you  don't  remember  her." 

There  was  a  time  when  I  used  to  kiss  little  Jennie  Aird, 
but  I  should  not  have  dared  to  kiss  the  young  woman  who 
stood  before  me  now.  Take-aboutable,  by  Jove !  .  .  .  Jen- 
nie had  her  father's  colouring,  golden-red  hair  over  a  tea- 
rose-petal  complexion  lightly  freckled ;  and  if  her  eyebrows 
were  faint,  that  somehow  merely  seemed  to  enhance  the 
steady  clear  pebble-grey  of  the  gaze  beneath.  She  was  six 
inches  taller  than  her  mother,  and  whether  it  was  the  small- 
ness  of  her  short-featured  face  that  made  full  her  beautiful 
throat,  or  whether  it  was  the  other  way  round,  I  will  not 
attempt  to  say.  Nor  do  I  remember  whether  her  hair  was  up 
or  down  that  day.  I  have  an  idea  that  at  that  time  it  was 
sometimes  the  one  and  sometimes  the  other.  Her  gesture 
as  she  offered  me  her  hand  had  the  proper  condescension  of 
such  a  creature  for  a  battered  old  piece  of  goods  life  myself. 
I  wondered  whether  I  ought  to  call  her  Miss  Aird.  These 
things  come  over  one  with  rather  a  shock  sometimes. 

We  lunched  in  a  shining  little  salon,  the  exact  centre  of 
which,  whether  you  measured  sideways,  lengthwise  or  up- 
and-down,  was  occupied  by  an  enormous  gilt  Ganymede  and 
Eagle  lamp  slung  by  heavy  chains  from  the  ceiling — for  the 
lighting  was  either  oil  or  candles  at  Ker  Annie.  Then  back 
to  the  pergola  for  coffee.  The  tide  had  receded,  and  the 
rocks  and  the  stakes  that  marked  the  channels  stuck  up 
everywhere  menacingly — the  Fort,  Les  Herbiers,  Cezembre. 
The  warm  air  was  laden  with  the  smell  of  genets,  the  sky 
was  brightly  blue  over  our  white  lattice.  I  saw  Alec  pre- 
paring to  doze. 

"Well,  what  about  Dinard  ?"  I  said  to  Madge. 

"Sure  you  wouldn't  rather  follow  Alec's  example?  Very 
well,  we'll  drop  Jennie  at  the  tennis-place  and  you  and  I'll 
go  off  on  the  prowl.  I'll  be  ready  in  five  minutes.  Jennie !" 

She  ran  up  to  the  house,  and  I  waited  for  her  on  the  sandy 
drive. 

We  walked  into  Dinard.     The  magazin  that  enshrined 


212  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"It"  was  near  the  Casino,  and  there,  in  an  impermanent  little 
white-screened  and  gilt-chaired  shop  that  had  hardly  been 
open  a  fortnight  and  would  close  down  again  the  moment 
the  season  was  over,  I  had  a  soothing  half-hour  while  Alec's 
money  took  wing. 

"Mais  tiens,  Madame" — the  saleswoman's  witty  fingers 
touched,  hovered,  butterflied,  while  the  hat  became  half  a 
dozen  different  things  under  the  diablerie — "pose  comme  c,a, 
en  effet  sur  Foreille — Claire,  la  voile  verte — legerment — oh, 
m'sieu !"  A  delectable  gesture  of  admiration  of  everything 
and  everybody  concerned,  the  hat,  the  veil,  Madge,  herself,  as 
unabashed  as  the  attitudinising  of  the  sunbrowned  young 
athletes.  "On  dirait  un  sourire  sur  la  tete  de  Madame !'' 

So,  on  a  purely  hypothetical  rate  of  exchange,  Madge 
bought  three,  and  we  sought  the  teashop  and  Jennie. 

All  English-speaking  Dinard  meets  at  that  teashop  in  the 
afternoon.  From  four  o'clock  onwards  it  is  a  mob  of  youths 
in  the  blazers  of  Eton  and  Charterhouse  and  the  Old  Mer- 
chant Taylors,  forking  gateaux  from  the  glass  counters  for 
themselves,  their  sisters,  other  fellows'  sisters,  their  sisters' 
friends.  Their  days  sped  in  tennis,  bathing,  tennis,  a  hur- 
ried dejeuner  between  the  sets,  tennis,  watching  tennis  as 
they  waited  for  a  partner  or  a  court,  a  sudden  flocking  to  the 
Le  Bras  for  tea,  tennis,  dancing,  chocolates,  and  the  pro- 
gramme for  the  tennis  for  the  next  day.  They  filled  the 
ground-floor  of  the  shop,  made  a  continual  coming  and  go- 
ing on  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  room  upstairs.  I  steered 
Madge  towards  the  table  where  Jennie  was  already  seated, 
and  found  myself  with  young  Rugby  on  my  right,  his  shirt 
open  at  the  neck,  flannels  hitched  up  over  his  white-socked 
ankles.  About  me  buzzed  the  whirl  of  talk. 

"He  saw  him  at  Ambleteuse,  and  he  did  it  in  ten  in  his 
walking-boots  on  grass — 

"Rot !  It's  run  in  metres,  not  yards,  and  the  record's  ten 
and  seventh-tenths " 

"American " 

"I  bet  you— 

"Well,  it's  nearly  the  same,  and  in  his  boots  on  grass— 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  213 

"Oh,  put  your  head  in  a  bag !  Jennie,  we'vejjot  Number 
Four  Court  for  five-thirty,  remember " 

''But  I  tell  you  this  chap  Arnaud " 

"Do  let  me  get  you  one  of  those  strawberry  things,  Mrs 
Aird " 

"My  brother  saw  him — he  just  threw  off  his  coat  and 
waistcoat  and  ran  as  he  was " 

"Mademoiselle,  trois  thes,  s'il  vous  plait " 

I  spoke  in  Madge's  ear.  .  , 

"She's  a  very  beautiful  child." 

"Jennie?"  said  proud  Madge.  "Rather  a  young  queen, 
isn't  she?  But  Alec's  perfectly  absurd  about  her.  Thinks 
young  people  to-day  are  the  same  as  we  were.  She  shall 
have  the  best  time  I  can  give  her." 

"Any ?"  I  looked  the  question. 

"No.  Quite  asleep.  She's  perfectly  happy  dancing  and 
dreaming  and  talking  sport  with  these  boys." 

"Who  are  they?" 

She  told  me.  She  knew  half  Dinard,  and  the  printed 
Visitors'  List  gave  her  the  rest. 

"Wrell,  well,"  was  all  I  found  to  say,  as  I  looked  at  Jennie 
again. 

For  while  woman's  beauty  is  coeval  with  Time  itself,  you 
have  only  your  own  allotted  portion  of  it.  The  loveliness 
that  comes  too  early  or  too  late  is  no  more  your  affair  than 
the  dawns  before  your  time,  the  sunsets  after  you  are  gone. 
Madge  at  the  midday  of  her  life  was  still  within  my  reach 
at  my  post-meridian,  but  Jennie  would  bloom  like  a  rosy  day- 
break when  my  own  evening  star  appeared.  Young  Rugby, 
young  Charterhouse,  would  write  his  vers-libre  to  that  small 
head,  sweet  throat  and  the  red-gold  of  her  hair.  .  .  .  But  I 
hardly  know  why  I  write  all  this.  I  am  only  trying  to  show 
how  sorely  I  had  needed  a  change  and  how  grateful  I  was 
now  that  it  had  come.  I  knew  that  I  was  welcome  to  stay 
with  the  Airds  as  long  as  I  pleased.  It  didn't  matter  if  I 
didn't  write  another  book  for  ten  years,  it  didn't  greatly  mat- 
ter if  I  never  wrote  another.  I  didn't  want  to  write.  That 
ethereal  sea,  that  multi-coloured  plage,  the  genet-scented  air, 


214  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

the  feeling  that  all  about  me  were  people  who  knew  what 
they  could  not  do  and  wasted  no  time  in  attempting  to  do 
it — ah,  they  live  their  lives  from  Cue  beginning  and  end  them 
at  the  end  in  that  fair  and  unperplexed  land  of  northern 
France. 


II 

Both  by  Alec  and  Madge,  Jennie's  education  was  discussed 
before  me  with  complete  freedom. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  Madge    would    roundly    declare. 

"Look  at  those  two  Beverley  girls !" 

"Very  nice  girls,  I  should  have  thought,"  Alec  would 
growl. 

"Yes,  and  who's  ever  going  to  marry  them?  Nobody  as 
far  as  I  can  see.  That's  Vi  Beverley's  fault.  She's  let  them 
sit  in  one  another's  pockets,  and  have  their  own  silly  family 
jargon,  and  think  that  the  rest  of  the  world's  a  cinema  just 
to  amuse  them,  till  they  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  a  stranger 
without  being  rude.  They  positively  freeze  any  young  man 
who  goes  near  them,  and  when  they  do  go  away  it's  to 
cousins.  Family  affection's  all  very  well  in  its  place,  but 
you  can  have  too  much  of  it.  Jennie  shall  take  people  as 
they  are.  If  she  does  miss  an  hour's  sleep  once  in  a  while 
she  can  stay  in  bed  all  next  day  if  she  wants." 

"Better  teach  her  baccarat  and  have  done  with  it." 

"Well,  she  needn't  faint  when  it's  mentioned.  This  is 
1920.  If  ever  those  Beverley  girls  marry  it  will  be  one  an- 
other." 

"If  she  begins  to  think  of  marrying  in  another  four  or  five 
years " 

"She's  not  going  to  sit  on  the  arm  of  your  chair  for  five 
years  while  you  read  the  Paris  Daily  Mail.  .  .  .  Anyway, 
about  to-night's  party " 

Then,  on  the  way  to  the  Stade  or  the  Club,  I  should  have 
Alec's  view  of  the  matter. 

"When  we  were  kids,  if  we  were  allowed  to  stop  up  once 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  215 

a  year  for  a  pantomime  .  .  .  beastly  mixed  sort  of  place  like 
this  too!  Madge  doesn't  know  half  that  goes  on.  Why, 
before  I'd  been  here  three  days  one  of  the  waiters  at  the 
Grand  had  the  infernal  neck  to  come  up  to  me  and  whis- 
per  " 

I  broke  into  uncontrollable  laughter.  The  idea  of  a  waiter 
whispering  alluring  suggestions  to  Alec  Aird  of  all  people 
was  altogether  too  much  for  me. 

"And  what  did  you  say  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"Say  ?"  said  Alec  grimly.  "When  I  said  'Frog'  he  jumped, 
I  promise  you  that!  .  .  .  And  mark  you,  these  French  fel- 
lows look  after  their  own  women  all  right — got  their  hands 
on  their  elbows  all  the  time.  It's  only  our  confounded  ideas 
of  freedom " 

"But  there's  no  harm  in  to-night's  party " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  That's  at  home.  We  can  turn  'em 
out  at  ten  o'clock,  and  be  in  bed  in  reasonable  time.  It's 
that  damned  Casino  I  bar " 

And  so  on.  Early  to  bed  and  a  nap  after  lunch  certainly 
suited  Alec.  I  have  seen  once-fine  athletes  settle  down  like 
this  before. 

I  had  been  at  Ker  Annie  some  days,  when  about  the  last 
thing  I  expected  had  happened  to  me.  I  have  just  told  you 
how  little  I  cared  whether  I  ever  wrote  another  book  or  not. 
Well,  that  morning  I  had  remained  in  my  room  after  coffee 
and  rolls  to  write  a  couple  of  necessary  letters.  These  fin- 
ished, I  had  sat  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, lazily  content  with  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  Then, 
suddenly  and  without  the  least  premeditation,  I  had  taken  a 
fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  had  begun  to  make  detached  and 
random  notes.  These  had  presently  strung  themselves  to- 
gether, and  by  and  by  a  phrase  had  sprung  up  of  itself.  .  .  . 

Whereupon,  in  the  very  moment  of  my  despairing  of  ever 
writing  again,  I  had  realised  that  my  next  novel  was  stirring 
within  me. 

Now  let  me  tell  you  the  part  that  Jennie  Aird  played  in 
this. 

I  frankly  admit  that  the  writers  of  my  own  generation 


2i6  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

have  sometimes  been  a  little  smug  and  make-believe  about 
young  girlhood.  We  have  seen  a  lovely  thing,  and  perhaps 
have  let  its  mere  loveliness  run  away  with  us,  to  the  loss  of 
what  I  believe  is  nowadays  called  "contact."  We  have  not 
seen  the  butterfly's  anatomy  for  the  pretty  bloom  of  its  wing. 
Nevertheless,  I  cannot  see  that  the  eager  young  morpholo- 
gists  who  are  succeeding  us  have  so  very  much  to  teach  us 
after  all.  To  read  some  of  these  you  would  think  that  the 
whole  moving  mystery  had  been  disposed  of  when  they  had 
said  that  a  young  girl  became  conscious,  shy,  and  had  a  talk 
with  her  mother.  If  it  must  be  anatomy  or  bloom,  I  think 
I  shall  go  on  preferring  the  bloom.  I  have  no  wish  to  ex- 
change the  eyes  in  my  head  for  that  improved  apparatus  that 
turns  a  woman's  hand  that  is  meant  to  be  stooped  over  into 
a  shadowy  bundle  of  metacarpal  bones. 

At  the  same  time  I  do  not  take  it  for  granted  that  youth 
is  necessarily  the  happiest  season  of  our  lives.  I  remember 
my  own  youth  too  well  for  that.  Emotionally,  I  am  aware, 
it  is  all  over  the  shop.  It  will  giggle  in  church  or  make  a 
heartbreak  out  of  nothing,  indifferently  and  with  tragical 
facility.  It  is  exploring  the  new-found  marvels  within  itself 
against  the  day  when  its  eyes  shall  open  to  the  miracle  of 
another.  That,  at  any  rate,  and  as  nearly  as  I  can  express 
it,  was  the  state  of  Madge  Aird's  sleeping  beauty  of  a  daugh- 
ter on  the  evening  of  the  party  of  which  Madge  and  Alec 
had  spoken. 

It  was  a  ravishing  evening  of  late  light  over  an  opal  sea. 
The  same  dusk  that  turned  the  begonias  velvety-black  in 
their  beds  made  luminous  the  pale  hydrangeas,  until  they 
resembled  the  glimmering  whites  and  mauves  of  the  frocks 
that  moved  in  and  out  among  them.  The  villa  was  lighted 
up  like  a  paper  lantern,  and  the  moving  couples  inside  made 
ceaselessly  wavering  shadows  across  the  lawn.  Over  the 
ragged  bay  the  phares  winked  in  and  out,  and  beyond  the 
ilex  and  chestnut  a  faint  luminosity  trembled — the  corona  of 
Dinard  lighting  up  for  the  night. 

They  danced  in  and  out  between  the  wide  hall  and  the 
salon  where  the  gilded  Ganymede  struggled  with  the  Eagle 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  217 

— youngsters  in  their  first  dinner-jackets,  sylphs  with  their 
plaits  swinging  about  their  softly-browned  napes,  their  eld- 
ers mingling  among  them  or  watching  them  from  the  walls. 
Madge,  in  a  frock  that  seemed  to  be  held  up  singly  and 
solely  by  her  presence  of  mind,  played  fox-trots.  Alec  was 
busy  "buttling"  in  the  little  recess  where  a  scratch  supper 
had  been  set  out.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  light  talk  in 
French  and  English,  throbbed  with  the  rhythm  of  the  fox- 
trotting piano. 

For  half  an  hour  or  so  I  made  myself  agreeable  to  a  num- 
ber of  ladies  of  whose  names  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea; 
then,  with  a  sense  of  duty  done,  I  turned  my  back  on  the 
pretty  scene  and  strolled  into  the  garden.  On  the  whole  I 
was  pleased  with  my  day.  That  was  what  I  had  wanted — 
the  solace  and  security  of  being  at  work  again.  Nothing 
world-shaking  or  tremendous;  I  simply  wanted  to  get  on 
with  the  unpretentious  job  that  was  mine,  and  incidentally 
to  be  tolerably  well-paid  for  it.  That,  when  all  was  said, 
was  the  way  of  wisdom,  the  kind  of  thing  men  very  properly 
get  knighthoods  for  and  had  their  portraits  hung  up  in  Clubs. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been  through  a  very  evil  time, 
and  that  now  that  I  was  rid  of  the  weight  of  it  life  was  worth 
living  again.  I  paced  the  paths  of  the  gay  artificial  little  gar- 
den, my  thoughts  on  all  manner  of  pleasant  times  to  come. 

Near  the  end  of  the  house  grew  an  auracaria,  forbidding 
and  black.  As  I  moved  towards  it  I  noticed  a  dim  white 
shape  beneath  it.  I  was  turning  away  again  ( for  at  a  party 
like  that  no  unaccompanied  bachelor  has  any  title  to  the 
dimmer  corners)  when  the  figure  moved  towards  me.  It 
was  Jennie  Aird — alone. 

"Hallo,  why  aren't  you  dancing?"  I  asked.  I  had  already 
watched  her  dance  four  dances  in  succession  with  the  same 
partner — young  Kingston  I  believe  it  was. 

She  made  a  quick  little  grimace,  but  did  not  reply. 

"This  is  rather  a  nice  party,"  I  remarked. 

To  this  she  did  reply.     "It's  a  beastly  party,  and  I  hate  it." 

I  drew  certain  conclusions;  but  "Oh?"  I  said.  "What's 
the  matter  with  it  ?  I  thought  it  rather  fun." 


218  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Everything's  beastly,  and  I  wish  we  were  back  in  Lon- 
don," she  snapped. 

"Anything  the  matter,  Jennie  ?" 

"Oh,  how  I  do  wish  people  wouldn't  ask  one  what's  the 
matter !" 

"Then  come  for  a  turn  and  I  won't." 

She  put  her  hand  indifferently  on  my  arm.  She  was 
nearly  as  tall  as  I,  and  I  noticed  as  we  passed  the  windows 
that,  that  night  at  any  rate,  her  red-gold  plait  had  been  taken 
up  and  was  closely  swathed  about  her  nape. 

Of  course  young  Kingsley  or  young  somebody  else  had 
said  something  or  done  something,  or  hadn't  said  or  done 
anything,  or  if  he  had  had  done  it  at  the  wrong  moment  or 
in  the  wrong  way  or  had  otherwise  conjured  up  the  shade  of 
tragedy.  Therefore,  as  there  are  occasions  when  tact  may 
take  the  form  of  talking  about  one's  self,  I  talked  to  Jennie 
about  myself  as  we  skirted  the  garden. 

"Do  you  know,  something  rather  exciting  happened  to  me 
this  morning,"  I  remarked. 

She  showed  no  great  interest,  but  asked  me  what  it  was. 

"It  mayn't  sound  much  to  you,  but  it  interests  me.  I 
think  I've  started  a  new  book." 

"I  wish  I'd  something  to  do,"  was  the  extent  of  her  con- 
gratulation. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"Oh,  anything.  I  shouldn't  care  what  it  was.  Anything's 
better  than  this." 

"Than  this  jolly  party?" 

"Yes.  Or  else  I  wish  I'd  been  born  a  man.  They  get  alt 
the  chances." 

I  reflected  that  one  man,  somewhere  in  the  world,  would 
have  a  very  enviable  chance,  but  kept  my  thought  to  myself. 
"Been  having  a  row  with  somebody?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered,  I  have  no  doubt  entirely  untruth- 
fully. "I'm  just  fed  up.  I  wish  I  could  have  nursed  in 
the  war  or  something,  but  I  was  too  young.  Or  I  wish  I 
could  write  like  you.  But  if  I  told  father  I  wanted  to  earn 
my  own  living  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and  mother's  one  idea 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  219 

is  to  dress  me  up  and  show  me  off  and  marry  me  to  some- 
body. They  don't  know  how  sick  I  am  of  it." 

I  glanced  at  her  as  we  passed  the  lighted  windows  again. 
That  soft  red  sill  of  her  lower  lip  was  level,  and  just  a  shade 
short  for  the  upper  member  of  her  mouth's  sweet  portal, 
so  that  the  pearls  within  were  negligently  guarded.  Temper 
and  discontent  were  in  her  pebble-grey  eyes.  She  gave  her 
head  an  impatient  toss,  as  if  to  shake  off  the  thought  of  the 
boisterous  young  cadets  and  crammer's-pups  within.  In  a 
day  she  seemed  to  have  outgrown  them,  to  have  lengthened 
her  mind  as  she  lengthened  her  frocks — if  young  women  do 
lengthen  their  frocks  nowadays.  She  wanted  to  nurse,  to 
write,  to  be  a  student  or  some  personage's  secretary,  to  say 
to  the  dingy  world,  "Here  I  am — use  me  and  don't  spare 
me,"  in  the  very  moment  when  I  and  such  as  I,  disillusioned 
and  worn,  were  sighing  "Enough — release  me — or  if  that 
may  not  be,  give  me  but  once  more,  once  more  that  first 
dawning  joy!" 

"I  don't  want  to  get  married,"  she  sulked.  "Ever. 
Mother  may  laugh,  but  I  won't.  It  would  have  been  differ- 
ent in  the  war.  I  love  all  those  darling  boys  who  were 
killed.  But  these  schoolboys  are  all  the  same.  .  .  .  You 
don't  want  a  secretary  for  your  new  book,  do  you  ?" 

It  may  have  been  my  imagination,  but  I  am  not  sure  that 
there  did  not  stir  in  my  memory  some  faint  echo,  of  a  wom- 
an sitting  under  a  murky  dome  as  she  waited  for  her  Manuel 
de  Repertoire  Bibliographique  Universel.  I  know  these  sec- 
retaries and  their  wiles,  and  if  my  answer  had  had  twenty 
syllables  instead  of  one  I  should  have  meant  them  all. 

"No,"  I  said. 

We  had  reached  the  wrought-iron  gates  at  the  beginning 
of  the  sandy  drive.  Three  or  four  cars  were  parked  there, 
and  apparently  somebody  or  other  was  leaving  early,  for  a 
chauffeur  had  just  switched  on  the  head-lights  of  a  heavy 
touring-car  that  shook  the  ground  with  its  muttering.  Judg- 
ing from  the  power  of  the  lights  it  was  the  car  of  one  of 
Madge's  French  friends,  for  no  English  car  carries  shafts 
so  blinding  as  those  twin  beams  that  clove  the  darkness. 


220  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

They  made  the  windows  of  the  house  seem  a  dull  expiring 
turnip-lantern.  Their  blaze  lighted  up  every  pebble,  every 
blade  of  grass,  denned  the  shadows  of  blade  on  blade.  Out 
of  the  fumy  darkness  insects  dropped,  stunned  with  light, 
and  moved  feebly  on  the  path.  I  drew  Jennie  behind  the 
glare,  and  as  I  did  so  one  of  the  English  servant  maids  came 
up  to  me. 

"A  gentleman  wishes  to  speak  to  you,  sir,"  she  said. 

"To  me?    What  gentleman?    Where?" 

"A  French  gentleman,  sir.  A  M'seer  Arnaud  his  name 
is." 

"Arnaud?  I  don't  know  any  Arnaud.  Are  you  sure  he 
asked  for  me  and  not  for  Mr  Aird  ?" 

"It  was  Sir  George  Coverham  he  asked  for,  sir." 

"Well,  where  is  he?" 

"Here — at  least  he  was  a  moment  ago 

"Arnaud?"  I  mused.  "Do  you  know  a  M'sieur  Arnaud, 
Jennie  ?" 

As  I  turned  to  her  I  saw  her  in  that  false  illumination 
with  curious  distinctness.  The  soft  upward  glow  from  the 
path  reminded  one  of  a  photographer's  manipulation  of  his 
tissue-paper  screens.  She  stood  there  semi-footlighted — 
smooth  brows,  low  glint  of  her  hair,  the  caught-up  upper  lip 
that  showed  the  pearls,  her  steady  gaze.  .  .  . 

Ah,  her  gaze !  What  was  this,  that  made  me  for  a  mo- 
ment unable  to  remove  my  own  eyes  from  her  face?  At 
what  object  beyond  the  car  was  she  so  fixedly  looking? 
Why  had  her  bosom  risen?  Why,  as  if  at  some  "Open, 
Sesame !"  did  that  betraying  upper  lip  offer,  not  two,  but  all 
the  pearls  within? 

My  eyes  followed  hers.  .  .  . 

As  they  did  so  sounds  of  talk  and  laughter  and  farewells 
drew  near  from  the  house.  The  departing  guests  were  upon 
us. 

But  I  had  seen.  If  only  for  an  instant  before  it  retreated 
swiftly  into  the  shadows  again,  I  had  seen.  Gazing  at  her 
as  steadily  as  she  had  gazed  at  him,  the  vision  of  a  young 
man's  face  had  momentarily  appeared. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  221 

Then  the  babble  broke  out  about  us. 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  chere  Madame " 

"Delicieuse " 

"Merci,  M'sieu'  Air-r-r-rd " 

"Better  have  the  rug  round  you " 

"Where's  Jennie  ?    Ah,  here  she  is " 

"A  demain,  a  onze  heures " 

"Good-bye " 

"Good-bye,  Sair-r-r  George " 

But  I  still  saw  that  face  haunting  the  transparent  gloom. 
A  beret  cap  had  surmounted  it,  a  blouse  en  grosse  toile  had 
clothed  the  shoulders  below.  Monsieur  Arnaud,  if  it  was 
he,  was  dressed  as  an  owvrier  or  a  sailor  dresses. 

And  he  was  young,  sunbrowned,  grave,  beautiful. 

The  car  backed  and  turned.  There  was  a  grating  as  the 
clutch  was  slipped  in,  and  then  the  engine  dropped  to  a 
steady  purr.  The  wrought-iron  gates  started  out  in  the 
glare,  the  red  tail-lights  diminished.  I  was  dimly  aware 
that  Madge  said  something  to  me,  but  I  remained  motion- 
less where  I  stood.  I  came  to  myself  to  find  myself  alone. 

Sunbrowned,  grave,  beautiful,  young! 

And  he  called  himself  Arnaud! 

I  have  told  you  of  that  list  of  names  with  which  his  diary 
began.  Arnaud  was  not  among  them.  But  Arnold  was. 
He  had  simply  Gallicised  it,  and  as  Arnaud  he  was  seeking 
me. 

Then  I  felt  my  sleeve  timidly  touched.  His  voice  came 
from  behind  me,  a  voice  with  a  charming,  uncertain  timbre. 

"George — I  say,  George — who  was  that?" 


Ill 

I  will  make  a  shameful  confession.  My  heart  had  sunk 
like  lead.  I  had  wanted  a  holiday  from  him.  That  very 
morning  I  had  thought  I  had  secured  it,  had  blithely  planned 
my  new  and  cheerful  work. 

And  here  he  was,  with  his  hand  on  my  sleeve. 


222  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

He  repeated  his  words  in  a  whisper.  "George,  who  was 
that?" 

Slowly  I  turned.     "It  is  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"I  saw  your  name  in  the  Visitors'  List." 

"Tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

He  fell  a  little  back.  "George,"  he  faltered,  "why  this 
tone?" 

I  refused  to  admit  at  once  that  I  was  ashamed.  "We 
can't  stop  talking  here,"  I  said.  "Where  are  you  staying?" 

"Out  at  St  Briac." 

"Then  I  suppose  you're  walking  back?  The  last  tram 
went  long  ago." 

"It's  only  six  miles." 

"Then  wait  here,  and  I'll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you." 

They  were  still  merrily  dancing  in  the  house,  but  I  man- 
aged to  get  to  my  own  room  unseen.  I  put  on  an  ordinary 
jacket  and  cap  and  descended  again.  He  was  not  where  I 
had  left  him.  He  had  skirted  the  lauristinus  bushes,  and 
from  a  safe  distance  was  gazing  into  the  house. 

Oh,  inopportune — inopportune  and  undesirable  in  the  last 
degree ! 

"Ready?"  I  said. 

Reluctantly  he  turned  away  his  eyes  and  followed  me  past 
the  cars.  We  passed  out  of  the  drive  and  into  the  dark  tree- 
planted  lanes  of  St  Enogat. 

A  rutty  little  ruelle  runs  along  the  side  of  St  Enogat 
Church  and  makes  a  short  cut  to  the  high  road.  We  passed 
the  church  without  exchanging  a  word.  At  last,  where  the 
street  widened,  I  broke  the  silence. 

"So  you're  Arnaud  now?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"The  athlete  people  are  talking  about?" 

He  muttered  that  there  were  lots  of  Arnauds. 

"You're  a  Frenchman  anyway?" 

"I've  got  to  be  something." 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  a  Frenchman  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  223 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

We  continued  our  walk.  The  little  white-painted  Grand 
Stand  of  the  Stade  glimmered  over  the  hedge  on  our  right 
when  next  he  spoke.  I  saw  his  glance  at  it. 

"About  those  athletics,  George,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "I 
was  an  awful  ass.  If  there's  anybody  who  oughtn't  to  draw 
attention  to  himself  it's  me.  But  I  did  it  without  thinking. 
It  was  at  Ambleteuse.  They  were  running  and  jumping,  and 
I  suppose  my  conceit  got  the  better  of  me  and  I  just  had  to 
have  a  go.  But  I've  cut  all  that  out.  It  wasn't  safe.  I 
don't  go  near  a  Stade  now." 

"Ambleteuse  ?     Then  you  did  cross  Dover-Calais  ?" 

He  hesitated.     "Not  exactly  Dover-Calais.    Thereabouts." 

"Thereabouts?  ...  I  suppose  you  worked  your  passage 
and  then  gave  them  the  slip  ?" 

"No.     I  thought  of  that,  but  it  was  a  bit  too  chancy." 

"Then  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"Well — strictly  between  ourselves,  George — it's  much  bet- 
ter not  talked  about — you  see  my  difficulty — but  I  swam  it." 

I  stopped  dead  in  my  stride.     "You  what!" 

He  spoke  apologetically,  as  if  it  were  something  not  quite 
creditable. 

"Yes.  But  I  don't  want  to  give  you  a  wrong  impression. 
I  didn't  swim  it  really  fairly.  Not  like  Webb  and  Burgess. 
I  only  swam  it  more  or  less.  For  one  thing,  I  hadn't  trained, 
you  see." 

I  recovered  my  breath.  "What  do  you  mean  by  swim- 
ming it  more  or  less  ?" 

His  modesty  was  almost  excessive.  "It  was  like  this, 
George.  You  see  I  rather  funked  just  jumping  in  at  Dover 
and  trusting  to  luck  to  bring  me  across.  It's  a  devil  of  a 
long  swim,  you  know,  and  besides,  I  had  to  have  my  clothes ; 
couldn't  land  here  with  nothing  on.  So  I  got  hold  of  a  fel- 
low at  the  Lord  Warden,  a  boatman  who'd  been  with  Woolf 
when  he  just  missed  it.  I  swore  him  to  secrecy  and  all  that, 
and  fixed  things  up  with  him,  and  he  gave  me  tides  and 
times  and  currents  and  so  on.  I  told  him  I  was  only  an 
amateur  who  didn't  want  to  make  a  fuss  till  he'd  had  a  sight- 


224  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

ing-shot,  and — well,  it  cost  me  a  tenner.  But  it  saved 
no  end  of  trouble.  He  and  another  chap  came  across  with 
me  in  a  little  motor-launch.  I  greased  myself  and  got  into 
a  mask,  and  a  mile  out  of  Dover  I  went  overboard.  Even 
then  I  didn't  swim  it  fairly,  for  I  was  hauled  in  again  after 
about  six  hours  for  another  greasing.  My  flesh  was  quite 
dead  half  an  inch  in,  you  see.  I  was  sick  too.  If  we'd 
been  really  meant  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  we  should  have 
been  given  scales,  like  fishes." 

"Well,  and  then?" 

"Well — that's  all.  I  landed  a  little  this  side  of  Grisnez, 
just  as  if  I'd  been  out  for  an  ordinary  bathe.  My  chaps 
kept  a  sharp  look-out  for  the  coastguard,  and  smuggled 
my  clothes  on  to  a  rock;  my  English  ones,  of  course;  I 
bought  this  rig  in  Boulogne.  And  in  three  or  four  days  I 
was  pretty  well  all  right  again.  But  I  don't  think  I'd  have 
the  stamina  to  do  it  again.  ...  I  say,  promise  me  you  won't 
go  talking  about  it,  George.  I've  got  to  lie  absolutely  low.  I 
frightfully  wanted  to  go  to  Antwerp,  but  I  simply  daren't  do 
it.  I  might  be  asked  for  my  Army  Discharge  Papers,  or 
something  awkward  like  that." 

So  that  was  how  he  had  solved  the  passport  problem ! 
Unable  to  walk  the  Straits,  he  had  simply  swum  them,  and 
had  saved  that  night's  stoking  with  coal-dust  in  his  beard! 
And  suddenly  and  inexplicably,  I  found  something  of  my 
resentment  already  softening  within  me.  There  was  a  noble 
simplicity  about  his  expedient,  and  even  his  voluminous  cor- 
duroys and  shapeless  vareuse  did  not  hide  the  magnificence 
of  his  build.  And  yet  he,  so  magnificent,  must  forego  that 
deep  joy  in  his  physical  splendour  if  he  was  to  preserve  his 
anonymity.  It  passed  him  by  as  the  publisher's  belief  in 
him  had  passed  him  by — as,  it  began  to  appear  to  me,  all 
else  in  life  must  pass  him  by.  Antwerp  and  the  Stades  for 
others,  but  for  him,  who  would  have  won  glorious  laurels 
there — no.  Nay,  say  he  was  now  what  he  looked,  nineteen 
or  twenty.  His  athletic  prime  was  already  far  advanced. 
He  himself  doubted  whether  he  had  the  stamina  to  swim  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  225 

Channel  again.     This  alone  would  have  sufficed  to  win  my 
compassion. 

We  were  now  well  clear  of  St  Enogat.  The  night  was 
moonless,  but  the  heavens  were  crowded  with  stars,  and 
seaward  the  lights  burned  emerald,  diamond,  ruby.  South- 
ward over  the  land  the  eye  wandered  over  the  dim  fruit 
trees  that  dotted  the  fields  of  sarrasin.  A  light  breeze  moved 
in  the  tops  of  the  crooked  poplars,  and  where  the  tramway 
leaves  the  road  and  takes  as  it  were  a  dive  into  a  wilderness 
of  dark  tamarisk  and  thorn  a  gramophone  played  somewhere 
in  an  unseen  cottage.  Already  an  intermittent  paleness  had 
begun  to  sweep  the  sky  ahead :  a  pulse  of  faint  light,  four 
seconds  of  darkness,  the  pulse  again  and  eleven  seconds  of 
darkness — the  Giant  of  Cap  Frehel. 

At  least  another  ten  years  in  less  than  a  month!  I  kept 
stealing  shy  glances  at  him  through  the  limpid  darkness. 
Quite  literally  I  felt  shy  in  his  presence,  for  he  was  both 
known  and  unknown  to  me.  If  he  was  now  nineteen,  I  saw 
him  now  at  nineteen  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — grave  and 
young,  brown  and  beautiful.  His  talk  had  a  gentleness  and 
a  modesty  too.  No  wonder  Julia  Oliphant  had  loved  him ! 

"Well,  go  on  after  you  left  Ambleteuse,"  I  said  by  and  by. 

"Oh,  then  I  walked,  and  took  train  once  in  a  while,  till  I 
got  to  Rouen  and  Caen  and  on  here.  Lovely  churches  all 
the  way ;  I  want  to  go  to  Caen  again.  That  took  me  a  fort- 
night. Then  I'd  a  couple  of  days  in  St  Malo,  and — well, 
that  about  accounts  for  the  time." 

"And  what  are  you  doing  at  St  Briac  ?" 

"Sketching.  Taken  a  great  fancy  to  it.  I've  got  a  bike 
cheap,  and  I  either  walk  or  ride.  I  stay  at  a  rather  shabby 
little  place,  but  it  suits  me.  I've  only  a  couple  of  haver- 
sacks and  my  painting  things,  so  I  can  be  off  at  a  moment's 
notice  if — if  anything  crops  up." 

Charmingly  and  sincerely  as  he  spoke,  I  was  yet  conscious 
of  a  reserve.  He  kept,  as  it  were,  to  the  surface  of  his 
itinerary,  dwelling  only  on  the  outer  details  of  his  life.  And, 
as  little  by  little  he  repossessed  me,  I  knew  that  I  should 


226  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

have  to  get  behind  this  reticence.  For  when  and  how  had 
he  lost  those  ten  years?  In  Trenchard's  loft,  or  since,  or 
partly  both?  Had  he,  when  he  had  plunged  into  the  sea 
a  mile  out  of  Dover,  been  still  twenty-nine,  or  his  present 
age,  or  some  intermediate  one?  If  I  was  to  be  of  service  to 
him  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  know  all  this. 

"Derry,"  I  said,  using  his  name  for  the  first  time,  "I  can't 
walk  all  the  way  to  St  Briac  and  back  again.  For  one 
thing  I'm  dressed  for  a  party.  Let's  sit  down." 

There  was  a  warm  dry  earth-wall  with  heath  and  thyme 
and  rest-harrow  and  convolvulus  growing  on  it,  and  there 
we  sat  down.  Opposite  us  opened  the  marshy  gap  of  Le 
Port,  and  every  four  seconds,  every  eleven  seconds,  the 
aurora-like  Light  a  dozen  miles  away  was  faintly  redupli- 
cated in  the  wet  mud.  All  was  quiet  save  for  the  ceaseless 
rustle  of  the  ragged  poplars,  the  creeping  whisper  of  the 
tide. 

"Now,"  I  quietly  ordered  him,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  all 
the  things  you've  been  leaving  out." 

At  first  I  thought  he  was  going  to  behave  like  an  obdurate 
boy,  whose  affairs  are  hugely  important  just  because  they 
are  his.  But  he  seemed  to  think  better  of  it.  In  a  hesitat- 
ing voice  he  said,  "What  things  ?" 

"Well,  begin  with  Trenchard's  place  on  Sunday  night,  the 
4th  of  July.  What  happened  then  ?" 

His  answer  was  hardly  audible.     "Yes,  it  was  then." 

"How  much?" 

"The  whole  lot." 

"At  one  go  you  dropped  from  twenty-nine  to — what  is  it 
now  ?  Twenty  ?" 

"Nineteen  or  twenty.     I  don't  know.     Yes." 

"Then  nothing's  happened  since  then?" 

"No — at  least  I'm  not  quite  sure." 

"Not  sure?" 

"No.  I  honestly  don't  know.  There's  been  a  gap  some- 
where, something  I  ought  to  have  come  to  again,  but  that 
somehow  I've  missed  altogether.  I  simply  can't  account 
for  it." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  227 

"Explain,  Derry." 

He  seemed  hardly  to  trust  his  voice.  "It's  the  queerest 
thing  of  all,  but  I'll  swear  it  on  a  Bible  if  you  like.  You 
know  what  it  was  I  funked  more  than  anything — all  those 
beastly  rotten  things  going  to  happen  all  over  again.  .  .  . 
Don't  let's  talk  about  them.  They  were  all  the  time  like 
a  nightmare  to  me,  that  I  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to 
all  the  time.  I  tell  you,  I'd  decided  to  put  myself  out  rather 
than  wallow  through  all  that  again.  .  .  .  Well,  I  can  only 
tell  you  I've  absolutely  skipped  it.  On  my  honour  I  have. 

It's  the  most  unaccountable  thing,  but "     He  choked  a 

little. 

"But,"  I  said,  deeply  pondering,  "is  it  possible  to  skip  a 
step — any  step?" 

"I  should  have  said  not,"  he  replied.  "Beats  me  alto- 
gether. I  started  on  a  dead  straight  course  back,  and  I 
fancied  I  should  have  to  take  my  fences  as  I  came  to  them. 
But  this  kink's  come,  and  somehow  I've  picked  up  the  thread 
again  clear  on  the  other  side  of  it." 

I  pondered  more  gravely  still.  "Wait  a  bit.  It  all  hap- 
pened that  Sunday  night,  kink  and  all  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That  was  the  night  you  left  my  place  with  Julia  Oli- 
phant,  said  good-bye  to  her  at  Waterloo,  and  went  on  to 
Trenchard's  ?  Did  you  stick  to  that  programme  ?" 

"Yes." 

("And  so,"  something  seemed  positively  to  shout  within 
me,  "much  good  you've  done  yourself,  Julia  Oliphant! 
Much  good  you're  still  plotting !  That  gap  that  he's  skipped 
altogether — that's  precisely  where  you're  setting  the  man- 
traps for  him,  you  and  your  chiffons  and  your  brown  char- 
meuse  and  your  new  willow-leaf  shoes !  You'd  better  forget 
Peggy  and  her  garters  and  get  back  into  your  nice  quiet  tea- 
gowns  again!") 

But  aloud  I  resumed :  "Then,  if  nothing's  happened  since 
that  night,  that  means  that  you're  now  stable — stationary?" 

His  reply  gave  me  a  queer  shock.  It  was  in  the  last 
word  that  the  shock  lay.  "As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  sir." 


228  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"So  you  haven't  got  to  move  on  from  pillar  to  post  and 
one  lodging  to  another?" 

"I've  been  at  St  Briac  for  ten  days.  And  that  isn't  all," 
he  continued  earnestly.  "I  can't  say  for  certain,  and  per- 
haps it's  too  soon  to  talk  about  it.  So  this  is  touching  wood. 
But  I've  got  a  sort  of  feeling  that  if  I'm  careful  and  live 
perfectly  quietly — no  excitement  and  going  to  bed  early, 
you  know — I  might  be  able  to  stick  just  like  this  for  a  long 
time.  I  know  no  more  about  that  gap  than  you  do,  but  it 
seems  to  have  cleared  the  air  like  a  thunderstorm.  And  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  really  intended  to  put  myself  out  .  .  .  oh, 
how  thankful.  .  .  ."  But  again  he  checked  himself. 

And  I  too  found  myself  gulping  to  think  that  I  had  so  re- 
cently wanted  to  wash  my  hands  of  him.  Be  rid  of  him? 
I  knew  now  that  not  only  should  I  never  be  rid  of  him,  but 
that  never  again  should  I  want  to.  Charming,  innocent, 
beautiful  and  grave !  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do  not  know, 
what  mysterious  spiritual  thing  Julia  Oliphant  had  actually 
wrought  upon  him.  I  only  knew  that  all  that  he  had  so 
greatly  dreaded  she  had  taken  upon  herself,  and  that  what- 
ever her  portion  thenceforward  was,  his  was  complete  ab- 
solution. "One  for  the  Lord,  the  other  for  Azazel" ;  out 
into  the  wilderness  she,  the  scapegoat,  must  go ;  but  on  him 
the  smell  of  that  fiercest  fire  of  all  had  not  so  much  as 
passed.  .  .  .  And  I  realised  in  that  moment  that  thence- 
forward he  was  my  charge — yes,  my  son  had  I  had  one. 
Must  he  stay  in  France?  Then  I  must  stay  with  him.  Must 
he  wander?  Then  I  must  wander  too.  For  the  rest  of  his 
unstable  life  I  must  be  his  staff  and  support. 

"But  I  say,  sir,"  he  said  shyly  presently,  "about  why  I 
dug  you  out  to-night.  I  hope  you'll  say  no  straight  away 
if  you  think  it's  fearful  cheek,  but  the  fact  is  I  must  have 
some  more  colours,  and — well,  I've  got  a  little  money  in 
London,  but  I  can't  get  at  it  just  for  the  moment.  So  I 
really  came  to  ask  you  if  you  could  lend  me  five  hundred 
francs." 

This  was  strange.  I  shot  a  swift  glance  at  him  as  he 
lay,  a  rich  dark  patch  of  blouse  and  corduroys  at  my  side. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  229 

"Where,"  I  asked  him  as  steadily  as  I  could,  "is  your 
money  in  London?" 

"I  have  a  little  there,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"How  much  ?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,  but  it's  certainly  more  than  five  hun- 
dred francs." 

"Where  did  it  come  from?" 

Through  the  clear  dark  I  saw  his  dusky  flush.  "I'm 
sorry.  I  oughtn't  to  have  asked  you.  Never  mind." 

"Derry,"  I  said,  greatly  moved,  "tell  me :  are  you  remem- 
bering things  quite  properly  ?  You  surely  haven't  forgotten 
that  /  have  your  money?" 

"Eh?"  he  said.  The  next  moment  he  had  tried  to  cover 
his  quick  confusion.  "Eh?  Why,  of  course.  What  am  I 
thinking  of?  It  did  slip  my  memory  just  for  the  moment; 
stupid !  I'd  got  it  mixed  up  somehow  with  Julia  Oliphant. 
I  was  going  to  write  to  her.  I  remember,  of  course.  You 
sold  my  furniture.  You  did  sell  it,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much  did  it  fetch?" 

This  time  it  was  my  turn  to  evade.  "Well,  as  you  say, 
more  than  five  hundred  francs.  I — I  haven't  totted  it  up 
yet.  I  came  away  in  rather  a  hurry.  But  there's  quite  a 
lot,  and  I  can  let  you  have  all  you  want  to-morrow." 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

But  I  found  it  anything  but  all  right.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  profoundly  disturbing.  If  he  could  forget  that  he 
had  authorised  me  to  sell  that  black  oak  furniture  of  his  he 
could  forget  more  vital  matters.  Yet  he  had  remembered 
the  furniture  when  I  had  urged  him. 

"Tell  me,"  I  said  more  quietly,  "as  simply  as  you  can, 
exactly  what  you  do  and  what  you  don't  remember." 

"I  only  forgot  it  for  a  moment,"  he  stammered. 

"But  you  did  forget  it.     Can  you  explain  it?" 

I  felt  that  his  mind  laboured,  struggled ;  but  I  was  hardly 
prepared  for  what  came  next. 

"Just  let  me  think  for  a  minute.  I  want  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it  too.  It's  a  thing  I've  been  watching  most  care- 


230  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

fully,  and  I  give  you  my  word  I  remembered  everything 
absolutely  clearly  up  to  a  couple  of  hours  ago.  I  knew  all 
about  that  furniture  when  I  came  to  that  place  for  you, 
because  as  I  walked  along  I  was  trying  to  work  out  how 
much  it  ought  to  amount  to.  In  fact  I  wasn't  coming  to 
borrow  at  all,  but  just  to  ask  you  for  something  on  account. 
Let  me  think.  I  got  there  at  exactly  at  quarter  to  ten " 

His  fingers  were  playing  with  the  wild  flowers  on  the 
earth-wall.  In  and  out  through  the  whispering  poplars  the 
stars  peeped.  Every  four  seconds,  every  eleven  seconds, 
four  times  a  minute,  rose  and  fell  the  Light.  I  fell  to  count- 
ing the  intervals  as  I  waited  for  his  reply.  Diamond,  emer- 
ald, ruby,  twinkled  the  lights  at  sea.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  he  sat  up  and  took  a  deep  breath.  I  saw 
his  radiant  smile.  He  faced  me  with  the  starlight  in  his 
eyes. 

"George,"  he  said,  "who  was  that  zvith  you  in  the  gar- 
den?" 


IV 

For  some  seconds  the  stars  seemed  to  go  out  of  the  sky. 
I  seemed  to  be,  not  sitting  with  him  on  that  earth-wall  by 
Le  Port  gap,  but  to  be  standing  again  in  the  drive  of  Ker 
Annie,  with  the  glare  of  a  touring-car  thrown  up  from  the 
ground  and  Jennie  Aird  by  my  side.  I  seemed  to  see  again 
her  parted  lips,  to  hear  that  soft  intake  of  her  breath.  And 
his  own  face  seemed  to  hang  again  like  a  beautiful  mask 
suspended  in  the  glow. 

And  when  I  had  descended  from  my  room  again  I  had 
found  him  lurking  in  the  bushes,  gazing  into  the  lighted 
house. 

Stars  in  the  night  above  us!  Was  that  to  be  the  next 
thing  to  happen? 

Had  it  happened  ? 

Evidently  something  had  happened,  and  had  happened 
during  the  past  two  hours. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  231 

Then,  as  I  strove  to  grasp  the  immense  possibility,  a  deep 
and  hapless  yearning  flooded  my  heart.  The  loveliness,  the 
loveliness  of  it  had  it  been  possible !  She,  with  the  dreams 
still  unrubbed  from  her  opening  eyes,  he  a  December  prim- 
rose peeping  up  anew  out  of  the  roots  of  his  wrecked  and 
fruitless  years — they  would  have  been  matchlessly  coupled. 
Had  he  in  truth  been  my  son  I  could  have  desired  no  more 
for  him  than  this. 

Yet  why  do  I  say  "had  it  been  possible"  ?  Possible  or  im- 
possible, something,  whether  more  beautiful  or  fatal  I  could 
not  say,  had  in  fact  happened.  Whether  to  her  or  not,  it 
had  happened  to  him.  How  else  explain  that  treacherous 
little  slip  about  his  money?  Up  to  then  his  memory  had 
not  failed  him.  Reticence  he  had  shown,  a  youthful  un- 
willingness to  talk  about  himself,  but  not  in  order  to  con- 
ceal an  impaired  faculty.  His  account  of  his  movements 
during  the  past  month  had  been  slight,  but  complete  enough. 
One  gap  only — the  Julia  gap — he  found  unaccountable,  and 
that  was  no  enigma  to  me. 

But  was  he  now  on  the  eve  of  yet  another  transforma- 
tion? Had  one  look  of  eyes  into  eyes  hastened  him  to  an- 
other stage?  Absolved  he  was;  was  he  now  to  be,  not 
merely  absolved,  but  confirmed  in  all  the  beauty  and  liberty 
of  that  absolution?  Consider  it  as  I  tried  to  consider  it, 
sitting  on  that  thymy  earth-wall  while  Frehel,  like  a  ghostly 
clock,  threw  those  wavering  false  dawns  across  the  night. 


Julia,  by  her  ruthless  act,  had  But  Jennie  had  now  seen  him 

despoiled  him  of  ten  years  as  Julia  had  seen  him  more 

of  his  life.  than  twenty  years  ago. 

That  act  of  hers  constituted  the  But  should  another  gap  now 

gap  that,  try  as  he  would,  come  his  heart  would  under- 

he  could  not  account  for.  stand. 

In  some  dark  and  hidden  way  He  was  now  beautiful,  grave, 

Julia  had  taken  upon  herself  innocent  and  unafraid, 
his  burden  of  sin. 


232  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Julia,  darkly  machinating,  was  But  Jennie,  as  spotless  as  he, 
counting  on  waylaying  him  knew  nothing  of  machina- 
again,  and  yet  again.  tion. 

"He  shall  know  what  love  is;  If  his  question  to  me  meant 
why  should  he  get  nothing  anything,  a  wonder  had  hap- 
out  of  his  life?"  Julia  had  pened  to  him  not  two  hours 
passionately  cried.  ago. 

On  his  former  pilgrimage  he  But  was  Love  the  wonder 
had  not  known  Love.  now? 

If  so,  it  was  Julia's  gift  when     And  it  was  a  gift  to  Jennie, 
she  had   restored  his   inno- 
cence to  him. 

But  the  position  was  inconceivable,  not  to  be  thought  of. 
Experience  such  as  never  man  had  possessed  lurked  behind 
that  simulacrum  of  beauty  by  my  side.  Young  as  he  was, 
he  was  old  enough  to  have  been  Jennie's  father.  He  was, 
he  still  remained,  the  man  who  had  written  The  Hands  of 
Esau  and  An  Ape  in  Hell,  the  man  for  whom  I  had  hunted 
in  questionable  London  haunts,  who  had  known  to  the  full 
the  sin  and  shame  of  his  accumulated  years.  I  knew,  Julia 
knew,  what  contact  with  his  ruinous  uniqueness  meant. 
How  was  it  possible  to  permit  such  an  error  in  nature  as  to 
allow  him  to  fall  in  love  with  Jennie  Aird  ? 

Yet  if  he  had  already  done  so,  what  was  there  to  do? 

His  voice  sounded  again  softly  by  my  side. 

"You  haven't  told  me  who  that  was  with  you  in  the  gar- 
den," he  said. 

"Let's  finish  with  the  other  things  first,"  I  answered. 

"Oh,  I'm  tired  of  talking  about  myself,  sir." 

"That's  one  of  them.  Why  do  you  sometimes  call  me 
'sir'  and  sometimes  'George'?" 

He  gave  a  start.     "Have  I  been  doing  that  ?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

I  couldn't  catch  his  reply. 

"When  you  were  young  I  suppose  you  called  older  men 
'sir'?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  233 

"Of  course." 

"Do  you  think  that  at  this  moment  you  could  repeat,  say, 
half  a  page  of  The  Hands  of  Esau?"  (I  had  my  reasons 
for  choosing  that  book  rather  than  another.) 

"I  think  so." 

"Will  you  try?" 

"Shall  you  know  if  I'm  right  ?" 

"Near  enough  for  the  purpose,  I  think." 

He  puckered  his  brows  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  road. 
He  began  to  recite.  The  Hands  of  Esau  had  been  written 
in  or  before  1912,  and  the  year  was  now  1920.  To  remem- 
ber even  your  own  book  textually  eight  years  afterwards 
is  something  of  a  performance;  but  he  was  remembering, 
at  nineteen,  the  words  he  had  written  at  thirty-eight — a 
space  of  nearly  twenty  years.  I  stopped  him,  satisfied,  but 
he  himself  immediately  took  up  the  running. 

"Of  course  I  see  what  you're  after,  but  I've  done  all  that 
myself.  Honour  bright,  that  about  the  furniture  was  the 
first  slip  of  the  kind  I've  made.  But  I've  made  one  dis- 
covery." 

"What's  that?" 

"You're  starting  at  the  wrong  end.  That  memory's  all 
right.  It's  the  other  one  I've  sometimes  wondered 
about." 

"Ah  !  The  one  you  call  your  'B'  Memory !  Do  you  mean 
— it  sounds  an  odd  way  of  putting  it,  but  I  suppose  it's  all 
right — do  you  mean  you  don't  remember  what  sort  of  thing 
you'll  be  doing,  say,  next  year?" 

"Not  very  clearly,  George.  Sometimes  that  seems  an 
absolutely  unknown  adventure.  And  sometimes  it's  like 
that  queer  feeling — I  expect  you  know  it — that  you've  been 
somewhere  before,  or  done  something  before,  or  heard  the 
same  thing  before.  It  lasts  for  a  second,  and  then  it's  gone." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  continue  like  that?" 

"I've  stopped  thinking  about  it." 

"That  page  you  repeated  just  now.  That  wasn't  a  stock 
page  you — keep  in  rehearsal,  so  to  speak?" 

"No,  that  was  pukka," 


234  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  considered  my  next  question  carefully.  But  there  was 
no  avoiding  it ;  it  had  to  be  put.  I  watched  him  deliberately. 

"Now  tell  me  one  other  thing.  Do  you  ever  remember 
hearing  or  writing  these  words :  'Je  tache  de  me  debrouiller 
de  ces  souvenirs^ci?' " 

Poor,  poor  lad !  He  winced  as  if  I  had  cut  at  him  with  a 
lash.  He  turned  over  on  the  bank  so  that  I  could  not  see 
his  face.  He  made  no  response  when  I  placed  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  My  heart  ached  for  him  .  .  .  but  he  had  to 
be  shown  that  any  question,  of  love  between  himself  and 
Jennie  Aird  was  impossible. 

I  shook  him.    "Do  you  remember  that,  Derry?" 

Slowly  he  sat  up  on  the  bank.  He  turned  a  set  face 
on  me. 

"Let  me  say,  Coverham,"  he  said  tremulously,  "that  I 
went  through  a  whole  war  without  seeing  as  cowardly  a 
thing  as  that  done.  I  will  not  forgive  you." 

And  with  barely  a  moment's  pause  he  broke  out : 

"Oh,  what  am  I  to  do,  sir,  what  am  I  to  do?  You're 
older  and  wiser  than  I  am — I  want  help — advice — 

That  is  why  I  have  called  this  portion  of  his  history  "The 
Long  Splice."  Extremes  as  wide  apart  as  those  met  there 
and  interwove  their  strands.  Fortunate  it  was  for  me  that 
they  did,  for  had  not  that  last  helpless  cry  been  wrung  from 
him  I  should  have  been  dumb  before  the  bitterness  of  his 
reproach.  Whether  memories  of  sweetness  and  light  were 
failing  him  or  not,  those  of  bitterness  and  gall  remained, 
and  it  was  on  this  quivering  complexity  of  exposed  nerves 
that  I  had  laid  the  lash. 

And  yet  simultaneously  he  was  innocent,  assoiled,  ac- 
quitted. Only  the  man  he  had  been  had  groaned  under  the 
stroke;  the  other  had  turned  to  me  for  comfort  and  guid- 
ance and  help.  And  what  is  a  remembered  self  that  we 
should  weep  for  it?  What  is  memory  that  we  should 
writhe?  No  philosopher  has  yet  ventured  to  write  "I 
remember,  therefore  I  am."  Nor  does  a  man  remember 
entirely  and  wholly  of  his  own  will.  He  is  his  memory's 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  235 

lord  when  he  sets  himself  to  repeat  a  passage  from  a  book ; 
but  who  is  the  master  when  something  leaps  upon  him  with- 
out warning  from  the  past,  tears  open  an  old  wound,  and 
leaves  him  quivering  and  bleeding?  .  .  .  Berry's  "A"  Mem- 
ory now  seemed  to  me  to  be  beside  the  mark,  and  it  was 
with  a  sudden  joy  that  I  recognised  it  to  be  a  boon  that  his 
"B"  Memory  was  dissolving  into  a  golden  haze.  "An  ab- 
solutely unknown  adventure,"  he  had  said ;  and  what  better, 
more  merciful,  more  beautiful?  As  the  Great  Pity  hides 
other  men's  ends  from  them,  so  his  beginning  was  to  be 
hidden  from  him.  No  remembrance  of  disillusion  would  mar 
for  him  the  bloom  of  his  fair  discoveries.  What  though 
seas  were  sailed  before  if  you  know  it  not?  Are  the  gar- 
den's scents  less  fragrant  that  you  wonder,  for  a  fleeting 
instant,  when  you  have  smelt  them  before?  And  what  of 
the  kiss  of  your  mouth  when  that  kiss  is  both  an  undoing 
and  a  re-beginning,  the  end  of  one  dream  but  the  beginning 
of  a  lovelier  still  ?  What  Julia  had  done  once  Jennie  would 
do  again,  and  I  had  only  to  think  of  his  innocence,  his 
beauty  and  his  doom  to  know,  more  surely  than  I  ever 
knew  anything  in  my  life,  that  this  would  a  thousand-fold 
transcend  the  other. 

And — supposing  that  it  had  already  happened,  implicit 
in  that  single  revealing  look — he  had  still  to  sleep  that  night. 

I  forget  in  what  words  he  began  to  plead  his  cause.  His 
idea  was  this: 

He  conceived  himself  to  be  now  stationary,  or,  if  moving 
at  all,  to  be  doing  so  hardly  perceptibly.  Ignorant  of  the 
connection  between  Julia's  attack  and  his  putting-off  of  the 
years,  he  knew  as  little  that  similar  results  might  follow 
what  had  happened  in  the  garden  of  Ker  Annie  that  even- 
ing. He  would  "hang  on"  by  gentle  and  equable  living, 
and  to  that  extent,  and  if  all  went  well,  time  might  presently 
become  to  him  something  more  nearly  approaching  what  it 
was  to  anybody  else.  He  even  hazarded  a  suggestion  wild 
enough  to  make  the  hair  stand  up  on  your  head. 

"And  if  I  got  as  far  as  that,"  he  mused,  his  eyes  straight 
before  him  in  the  night,  "I  might  even — it's  no  madder  than 


236  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

anything  else — I  might  even  start  living  forward  again ;  but 
I  suppose  that's  too  much  to  expect,"  he  sighed. 

On  this  I  simply  refused  to  make  any  comment  at  all. 

I  had  told  him  that  Jennie  was  the  daughter  of  my  host. 
He  was  for  making  plain  sailing  of  it.  His  outbreak  about 
my  cowardice,  by  the  way,  had  been  disregarded  by  both 
of  us. 

"But  don't  you  see,  Derry,  you're  so  unimaginably  differ- 
ent from  anybody  and  everybody  else,"  I  repeated  for  the 
tenth  time. 

"Not  if  I  can  stop  decently  still,"  was  his  dogged  reply. 

"But  you  don't  know  yet  that  you  can." 

"You  don't  know  that  I  can't,  sir." 

I  couldn't  enter  into  that.  If  I  had  ever  intended  to  do 
so  the  time  for  it  would  have  been  on  that  Sunday  afternoon 
behind  the  rugosa  roses. 

"You  actually  mean  that  you  want  me  to  take  you  to  the 
house,  and  introduce  you  to  Mrs  Aird,  and  open  up  the  way 
to — God  knows  what?"  I  demanded  incredulously. 

"You  offered  to  introduce  me  to  Mrs  Aird  once  before." 

"I  offered  to  introduce  the  man  I  then  knew." 

"Am  I  any  worse  now  ?" 

"There's  no  question  of  better  or  worse.  A  thing  can  be 
done  or  it  can't,  and  this  can't." 

"Do  you  mean  because  of  my  clothes  and  my  being  a 
Frenchman  and  all  that?" 

"I  mean,  simply,  your  being  Derwent  Rose.  And  I  don't 
know  that  the  other  things  are  quite  as  simple  as  they  look 
either." 

"But  I'm  English  really.  And  I've  got  a  decent  suit  of 
English  clothes." 

"Do  they  fit  you — or  did  they  merely  do  so  once  ?" 

At  this  he  became  almost  cross.  "Look  here,  sir,"  he  said, 
"when  everything's  said  I  am  me,  and  I  feel  pretty  sure  I 
can  stop  as  I  am.  Dash  it,  I  am  on  the  blessed  map!  I'm 
quite  a  passable  nineteen  as  fellows  go,  and  the  rest's  all 
rubbishy  detail."  Then  his  manner  changed.  His  voice 
suddenly  shook.  "You  see,  I'm — I'm — I'm  in  it,  George. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  237 

Regularly  for  it.  Just  as  deep  as — oh,  deep  and  lovely!  I 
didn't  know  there  was  such  a  thing.  There  wasn't,  not  be- 
fore. .  .  .  Not  just  to  speak  to  her?  Not  just  to  see  her? 
Not  if  I  promise  faithfully  not  to  say  a  single  word  about 
it,  not  even  touch  her  finger?  Not  if  I  promise  to  cut  and 
run  at  the  very  first  sign  of  a  change?  Can't  you  manage 
that,  sir  ?  Am  I  such  a  rotten  outcast  as  all  that  ?  It  would 
be  quite  safe — I  wouldn't  say  a  word  anybody  couldn't  hear 
— I'd  promise — on  my  soul  I'd  promise " 

I  had  got  up  and  begun  to  pace  agitatedly  back  and  forth. 
How  could  I  have  him  at  the  Airds' — and  yet  how  resist  his 
supplication  ?  How  refuse  what  would  have  been  my  very 
heart's  desire  for  him — yet  how  grant  it  to  the  ruin  of  her 
young  life  as  well  as  of  his?  I  felt  his  eyes  on  my  face. 
He  knew,  the  rascal,  that  he  had  moved  me,  and  was  greed- 
ily looking  for  the  faintest  hint  of  my  yielding.  Yet  the  im- 
possibility! ...  I  stopped  before  him. 

"There's  one  thing  that  settles  it  if  nothing  else  did,"  I 
said  gently.  "Miss  Aird's  probably  off  in  a  couple  of  days." 

It  was,  of  course,  a  flagrant  invention.  I  had  thought  of 
it  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  But  it  could  be  made  true  if 
necessary.  I  thought.  He  stared  at  me  blankly. 

"Off!    Did  you  say  off?" 

"Right  avv-ay.  And  it's  now  nearly  two  o'clock,  and  I 
want  you  to  make  me  a  promise  before  I  leave  you." 

"Off!"  he  repeated  stupidly,  as  if  he  had  imagined  her 
fixed  for  all  eternity  as  he  had  seen  her  in  that  moment 
by  the  car. 

"I'll  bring  your  money  round  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock. 
I  want  you  to  promise  to  wait  in  your  room  for  me  till 
then." 

"Where  is  she  going?" 

"Will  you  wait  in  your  room  till  I  come  ?" 

"Back   to   England?" 

"I  don't  know.    Wrill  you  wait  for  me  in  your  room?" 

"Tell  me  one  other  thing,  sir,"  he  pleaded;  "just  her 
name " 

"Her  name's  Jennie." 


238  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

He  received  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  costly  gift.  "Jennie, 
Jennie "  he  breathed  softly. 

"You'll  wait  forme?" 

"Of  course,  sir.    Thank  you,  George." 

"Then  I'll  say " 

But  I  could  not  get  out  the  words  "Good  night." 

How  did  I  know  what  the  night  was  going  to  be  for  him  ? 

For  it  happened  in  the  night.  .  .  . 

I  left  him  standing  by  the  earth-wall,  with  the  lights  still 
twinkling  at  sea  and  the  low  glare  of  Frehel  in  the  sky 
behind  him.  Four  seconds,  eleven  seconds,  four  times  a 
minute 

"Jennie !"  I  heard  his  hushed,  rapt  voice  as  I  turned  away. 


"L*  Por-r-rt !    L*  Por-r-rt !" 

Only  an  old  woman  with  white  streamers  and  a  basket 
descended  from  the  tram,  but  instinctively  I  turned  my 
head  to  look  at  the  flowery  bank  on  which  I  had  sat  so  few 
hours  before.  It  was  a  sparkling  morning,  with  an  intense 
blue  sky,  high  white  clouds  and  singing  larks.  The  fields 
of  flowering  sarrasin  were  white,  cream,  pink,  deep  russet; 
and  far  away  the  grey-green  boscage  receded  into  misty 
blue,  unbroken  by  walls  or  fences,  that  contradictory  com- 
munal undulation  of  a  country  where  individualism  is  at  its 
most  intense,  holdings  small,  and  a  ditch  or  a  bank  you 
could  stride  over  fencing  enough.  But  I  was  too  anxious 
to  be  able'  to  admire.  At  the  best  it  looked  as  if  I  should 
have  to  assume  complete  responsibility  for  him  and  so  cut  my 
visit  to  the  Airds  abruptly  short.  At  the  worst — but  I  put 
the  worst  from  me. 

"Allez!    Roulez!" 

With  the  sound  of  a  tank  going  into  action  the  tram  clat- 
tered forward  to  St  Lunaire. 

Up  the  steep  street,  and  a  swerve  past  the  acres  of  tennis- 
courts  that  had  once  been  grass.  The  huge  six-acre  cage 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  239 

was  already  full  of  players,  and  I  thought  of  Jennie  Aird. 
Then  past  the  magazins  and  the  long  cafe,  with  half -clad 
young  Frenchmen  punting  a  ball  and  walking  on  their  hands 
in  the  strip  of  meadow  opposite.  The  Casino,  the  hotels, 
and  then  a  steep  planted  avenue  that  seemed  to  end  in  the 
air.  Then  a  rush  and  another  swerve,  and  out  on  to  the 
wide  expanse  of  tussocky  links,  grey  and  fawn  sandhills, 
and  turf  gemmed  with  a  myriad  tiny  flowers. 

His  hotel  was  within  a  biscuit's-toss  of  the  terminus.  It^ 
stood  by  the  roadside,  and  its  front  consisted  of  a  built-out 
structure  of  glass,  within  which  a  couple  of  Breton  girls 
with  tight  hair,  string-soled  shoes,  and  the  physique  of 
middle-weight  boxers,  were  laying  a  dozen  small  tables  for 
dejeuner.  A  lad  dressed  precisely  as  Derry  had  been 
dressed  was  delivering  lifebuoys  of  bread,  and  knives  clat- 
tered in  baskets,  and  two- foot-high  stacks  of  coloured 
plates  were  being  carried  in. 

"M'sieu'  Arnaud?"  I  inquired  of  one  of  the  string-slip- 
pered Amazons. 

"M'sieu'  n'est  pas  descendu — si  vour  voulez  monter  au 
deuxieme,  M'sieu'." 

She  indicated  a  way  through  the  back  salon  that  had  once 
been  the  street  frontage.  Beyond  yawned  a  cavernous 
kitchen,  the  blacker  because  of  its  opening  on  to  a  daz- 
zlingly  green  back  yard.  Between  the  two  rose  a  staircase, 
which  a  strapping  youth  was  polishing  with  a  mop  on  his 
foot.  I  mounted  and  gained  the  deuxi&me.  Then,  outside 
the  closed  door,  I  stopped  with  a  thumping  heart. 

But  it  was  no  good  hesitating.  I  pulled  myself  together 
and  knocked. 

" irezl"  called  a  clear  voice. 

I  thanked  God,  pushed  and  entered. 

His  head  was  bent  over  his  colour-box.  On  a  piece  of 
paper  he  appeared  to  be  making  a  list  of  the  colours  to  be 
replenished.  He  looked  smilingly  up,  and  our  eyes  met. 

Clear  eyes,  grave  sweet  mouth,  undoubting  smile 

And  unchanged.  The  night  had  passed,  and  nothing  per- 
ceptible had  happened.  I  crossed  to  the  window.  Now 


240  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

that  all  was  well,  I  dare  to  admit  to  myself  that  I  had  been 
prepared  to  find  him — dead.  If  he  was  right  in  fixing  his 
climacteric  at  sixteen  he  might  well  have  been  dead. 

But  there  he  was,  bending  over  his  colour-box  and  mur- 
muring "Cobalt — I  seem  to  eat  cobalt — raw  sienna — orange 
vermilion " 

Presently  I  spoke,  still  from  the  window. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  downstairs,  but 
you've  a  gorgeous  view  up  here." 

"Isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Grows  on  you.  At  first  I  thought 
it  rather  scrappy,  a  little  bit  of  everything,  and  I  wish  they'd 
put  a  bomb  under  that  silly  chateau-place;  but  it  grows  on 
you.  Inland's  the  country  though.  Orange  vermilion,  pale 
cadmium,  and  a  double  go  of  cobalt " 

I  looked  round  his  room.  The  smell  of  oil-colours  clung 
about  it,  but  it  was  exquisitely  tidy  and  simple.  Its  walls 
were  covered  with  a  yellowish  striped  paper,  its  ceiling 
beams  were  moulded,  its  herring-boned  parquet  floor  shone. 
A  single  mat  lay  by  the  side  of  his  ornate  wooden  bedstead, 
which,  with  the  little  night  cupboard  by  it,  a  small  table  at 
the  window,  and  a  single  upholstered  chair,  was  the  only 
furniture  in  the  room.  The  door-knob  was  of  glass,  and 
the  lace  curtains  had  been  draped  back  over  the  open  leaves 
of  the  window.  From  a  flimsy  little  hat-rack  hung  his  two 
haversacks.  His  canvases  apparently  were  in  the  cupboard 
that  was  sunk  into  the  wall. 

"Well,"  he  said,  putting  his  list  of  colours  into  his  pocket, 
"it  seems  rather  a  rum  idea  bringing  you  right  out  here 
when  I've  got  to  go  into  Dinard  myself.  Can  I  have  the 
money,  George?" 

I  counted  it  out. 

"And  oh,  by  the  way — I  know  you  won't  mind — but  if 
you'd  talk  French  when  there's  anybody  about — it  makes 

things  a  bit  simpler " 

Here  I  began  to  be  aware  of  the  imminence  of  another 
problem.  I  don't  mean  the  talking  French;  I  mean  the 
whole  problem  of  his  company.  He  was  going  into  Dinard 
to  buy  colours,  and  I  also  was  returning  to  Dinard.  The 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  241 

natural  thing  was  that  we  should  go  together.  I  could 
hardly  constitute  myself  his  guardian  and  not  be  seen  about 
with  him — bargain  with  him  that  he  only  came  to  me  or  I 
to  him  like  Nicodemus,  by  night.  He  seemed  to  take  all 
this  cheerfully  for  granted. 

But  whither  would  it  presently  lead?  Dinard  was,  in  a 
word,  the  world — that  world  in  which  he  had  no  place. 
Everybody  knew  scores  of  people  in  Dinard,  and  Madge 
Aird  hundreds.  Tennis,  tea,  the  shops,  the  plage — all  was 
public,  familiar,  open  in  the  last  degree.  Within  a  couple 
of  days,  on  the  strength  of  being  seen  twice  or  thrice  with 
me,  he  would  be  exchanging  bows  and  smiles  and  "Bon- 
jours"  with  goodness  knows  who. 

"Well,  come  along,"  I  said  in  a  sort  of  daze.  "But  I  don't 
know  that  I  feel  like  talking  much,  either  in  French  or 
English.  You're  a  devil  of  a  fellow  for  keeping  your 
friends  guessing,  Monsieur  Arnaud.  You're  still  Monsieur 
Arnaud,  I  suppose?" 

"How  can  I  change  it?"  he  replied  gravely. 

Of  course  he  couldn't  change  it.  Arnaud  he  must  remain 
until  he  became  too  young  to  be  Arnaud  any  longer. 

On  the  returning  tram  I  addressed  myself  somewhat  as 
follows : 

"George  Coverham,  this  can't  go  on.  You've  got  to  make 
up  your  mind  one  way  or  the  other.  If  you  don't  he'll  make 
it  up  for  you.  His  is  already  made  up.  He  sees  no  reason 
why  he  shouldn't  carry  on.  He's  either  right  or  wrong. 
Well,  suppose  for  a  moment  that  he's  right?  What  then? 

"You  know  what  you  were  prepared  for  when  you  went 
up  those  stairs  of  his.  You  know  you  had  to  put  your  hand 
up  three  times  before  you  dared  knock.  Well,  everything 
was  all  right;  nothing  had  happened.  If  he's  really  sud- 
denly and  desperately  in  love  it  ought  to  have  happened, 
but  anyway  it  didn't.  That  means,  in  plain  English,  that 
he  knows  more  about  himself  than  you  do. 

"And  he  thinks  he  can  stay  as  he  is.  Suppose  he  can? 
Suppose  even  that  maddest  conjecture  of  all  is  true,  and 
that  he  actually  may  re-become  normal  and  live  out  his  life 


242  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

like  everybody  else?  It  wouldn't  be  any  more  wonderful 
than  the  rest.  So  what's  the  obvious  thing  to  do?  Why, 
simply  to  take  him  as  he  is — as  long  as  he  is  it.  That's  all 
he's  asking  you.  And  he's  promised  to  clear  out  at  the  very 
first  hint  of  another  transformation.  In  fact  he's  got  to. 
It's  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case. 

"Look  at  him  on  the  seat  opposite  to  you  there,  between 
those  two  bare-headed  young  women.  Those  two  Breton 
girls  may  keep  their  four  handsome  Breton  eyes  straight 
before  them,  but  they're  conscious  of  every  moment  of  his 
presence.  Who  wouldn't  be?  He's  a  dream  of  beauty. 
And  remember  how  he  pleaded  with  you  last  night.  Can't 
you  hear  him  still  ?  'Only  to  see  her,  only  to  talk  to  her : 
can't  you  manage  that,  sir  ?  Can't  you,  George  ?'  Was  ever 
gratitude  more  touching  and  absurd  than  when  you  merely 
told  him  her  name — 'Jennie!'  Why  shouldn't  he  have  the 
love  now  he  missed  before?  Julia  Oliphant  didn't  stop  to 
think  twice  about  it.  Who  made  you  Rhadamanthus, 
George  Coverham?  .  .  .  Anyway,  you've  got  to  make  up 
your  mind." 

I  told  myself  all  this,  and  more;  but  I  cannot  say  I  con- 
vinced myself.  Indeed,  in  the  face  of  past  experience,  I 
made  the  mistake  of  once  more  thinking  I  had  a  choice  in 
the  matter.  I  thought  that  I  possessed  him,  and  not  he  me. 
So  I  floundered  among  details,  little  practical  details,  such 
as  talking  French  to  him  and  being  seen  about  Dinard  with 
him.  I  recalled  how  already  Madge  Aird  had  asked  whether 
he  had  a  brother.  I  seemed  to  see  Alec's  face  when  he  was 
told  that  a  Frenchman  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  daughter, 
my  own  as  I  explained  that  the  Frenchman  was  not  really 
a  Frenchman,  and  Alec's  again  as  he  asked  -me  what  the 
devil  I  meant.  Then  there  was  his  name — Arnaud.  That 
again  landed  us  straight  into  a  dilemma.  He  couldn't  change 
it,  must  stop  Arnaud;  but  as  Arnaud  the  athlete  he  had 
been  seen  at  Ambleteuse.  The  brother  of  some  young 
Rugby  or  young  Charterhouse  at  that  moment  in  Dinard 
(the  words  seemed  to  detach  themselves  from  the  noisy 
babble  of  a  tea-shop)  had  seen  him.  He  might  be  recog- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  243 

nised  here;  people  do  look  twice  at  a  casual  stranger  who 
strolls  into  a  Stade,  chucks  off  his  coat,  and  in  his  walking 
boots  does  something  like  level  time.  He  looked  it,  too, 
every  inch  of  him.  .  .  .  And  whispers  might  be  flying  round 
Dover  too.  The  straits  are  not  very  wide,  and  men  who  can 
swim  them  do  not  come  down  with  every  shower  of  rain. 
.  .  .  Oh,  the  whole  thing  bristled  with  risks.  I  counted  a 
hundred  of  them  while  the  tram  rolled  in  its  cloud  of  filthy 
smoke  past  La  Gueriplais,  La  Fourberie,  St  Enogat,  the 
Rue  de  la  Gare.  .  .  . 

"Devoiturons,"  he  said  suddenly,  touching  my  knee. 

He  had  taken  matters  into  his  own  hands  even  while  I 
had  mused.  I  had  intended  to  postpone  my  decision  by 
dropping  off  at  St  Enogat;  now  we  were  at  the  corner  of 
the  Boulevard  Feart.  "Down  we  get!"  We!  Apparently 
"we"  could  get  to  "our"  colour  shop  without  making  the 
circuit  of  the  rest  of  the  town.  I  will  not  swear  that  I  saw 
a  momentary  twinkle  of  mischief  in  his  eyes.  I  was  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  road  looking  after  the  tram,  which 
was  already  fifty  yards  away. 

Together  a  middle-aged  English  gentleman  in  a  neat 
lounge  suit  and  a  splendid  young  specimen  of  French  man- 
hood in  blouse  and  corduroys  turned  into  the  Boulevard 
Feart. 

There  would  still  have  been  time  to  retrieve  my  inde- 
cision. The  Boulevard,  approached  from  that  end  of  the 
town,  is  not  nearly  so  frequented  as  the  Rue  Levavasseur 
and  the  quarter  near  the  Casino.  It  was,  in  fact,  particu- 
larly quiet.  But  every  step  we  took  under  the  shady  limes, 
past  the  white-faqaded  houses  and  gardens  vermilion  with 
geraniums  and  bluer  than  the  sky  with  lobelia,  brought  us 
nearer  to  that  crowded  busy  world  in  which  he  held  so 
singular  a  place.  Or  I  could  have  left  him  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Jacques  Carrier  and  made  my  escape  by  wav  of  the 
Rue  St  Enogat.  But  what  then?  If  I  shook  him  off  to-day 
the  question  would  be  to  face  again  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Ker 
Yvonne,  Ker  'Maria,  Ker  Loic  ...  the  shuttered  villas 
slipped  past  us. 


244  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Then,  "Derry,"  I  said  in  desperation,  "I'm  at  my  wits' 
end  about  you.  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

"It's  jolly  just  being  with  you,"  he  said,  looking  straight 
ahead. 

"Yes.     It's  other  people  who're  the  difficulty." 

I  had  the  same  answer  as  before.  "As  long  as  I  sit 
tight,  George?"  he  said  mildly. 

"Even  then.  You  said  yourself  that  you  were  both  the 
most  public  and  the  most  private  man  alive." 

"Ah,  but  that  was  when  I  was  slipping  about  all  over  the 
place. — Up  here's  our  shop." 

"But  even  if  you're  stationary  you're  just  as  much  an 
anomaly.  Nobody  except  you  stops  at  one  age." 

"Well,  it's  a  step  in  the  right  direction  so  to  speak.  At 
any  rate  it  isn't  going  back." 

"I  wish  I  knew  how  you  knew  that." 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  old  fellow,"  he  placidly  replied. 

"Look  here,"  I  said  abruptly.  "There's  just  one  possible 
way  out,  but  I  rather  doubt  whether  you'd  agree  to  it.  I 
mean  about  what  you  wanted  me  to  do  last  night.  Would 
you  allow  me  to  tell  the  whole  thing  to  my  friends  the  Airds 
and  leave  the  decision  to  them?" 

Quickly,  very  quickly,  he  shook  his  head.  "No,  I'm  afraid 
I  couldn't  do  that." 

"But  is  anything  else  fair  and  right?" 

"If  I  stop  as  I  am?" 

"In  any  case." 

"They  wouldn't  believe  you." 

"I  think  Mrs  Aird  might  believe  me." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "She  can  swallow  a  good  deal  if 
she  can  swallow  that!" 

"She's  a  very  observant  woman.  She  said  one  thing  that 
perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"What?"  he  asked  with  sudden  curiosity. 

"She  saw  you  one  day  in  South  Kensington." 

"Well  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  245 

"She'd  also  had  a  good  look  at  you  that  day  at  the  Lyon- 
nesse  Club." 

"Well?" 

"She  asked  me  whether  Derwent  Rose  had  a  brother." 

"Et  vous  avez  repondu  ?" 

"J'ai  dit  que  non." 

"C'etait  la  figure  ?    La  taille  ?" 

"Le  tout  ensemble." 

"Elle  avait  des  conjectures?    Pas  possible!" 

"Comme  vous  le  dites,  pas  possible;  mais  s'ils  poussent 
sur  le  Rosier  trop  de  boutons " 

"II  n'y-en  poussera  plus,"  he  laughed;  and  the  little  knot 
of  French  people  passed  us  by. 

He  made  light  of  my  recital.  I  heard  his  quiet  chuckle. 
Then  suddenly  I  realised  that  we  were  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Levavasseur,  outside  the  Hotel  de  Provenge. 

"Look  here,  haven't  we  passed  your  shop  ?"  I  said. 

"Eh?  Have  we?  By  Jove,  so  we  have.  That's  the 
charm  of  your  conversation,  George." 

"Then  hadn't  we  better  go  back?" 

"Of  course  we  must ;  it's  the  only  colour  shop  in  the  place. 
But  just  step  across  the  road  now  that  we  are  here.  I  want 
some  tooth-powder.  And  some  envelopes  at  the  Bazaar 
there.  Must  have  some — run  right  out  yesterday." 

We  crossed  to  a  chemist's,  but  it  appeared  that  he  usually 
went  to  a  chemist's  a  little  farther  down  the  street.  There 
he  made  his  purchases,  and  once  more  we  came  out  into  the 
street. 

"Now  I  want  some  bootlaces,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I 
always  load  up  when  I  come  into  Dinard.  Saves  time,  not 
to  speak  of  the  tram-fare." 

It  was  approaching  a  brilliant  midday,  and  from  the  Ten- 
nis Club,  the  shops,  the  confectioners,  and  the  cafes,  people 
were  beginning  to  press  to  their  various  hotels  and  villas  to 
lunch.  In  another  half-hour  the  street  would  be  half  empty, 
but  now  it  was  at  its  gayest  with  bright  blazers,  gaudy  cos- 
tumes, sleek  heads,  sea-browned  faces.  One  saw  laughing, 


246  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

turning  heads,  caught  snatches  of  appointments — "A  ce 
soir" — "Don't  forget,  Blanche"— "Number  Four  at  two- 
thirty" — "You  coming  our  way,  Suzette?" 

Suddenly  my  arm  was  seized,  and  M.  Arnaud  took  a 
quick  step  forward. 

"Thees  ou-ay,"  he  said  laughingly,  "des  enveloppes " 

I  was  dragged  into  the  Bazaar. 

Then,  but  too  late,  I  wondered  what  his  so  pressing  need 
of  envelopes  was.  "Must  have  some — ran  right  out  yester- 
day!" Who  were  his  correspondents?  Of  what  did  his 
letter-bag  consist  ?  Letters,  he !  A  passport  and  a  birth- 
certificate  would  have  been  more  to  the  point;  a  permis  de 
sejour  and  his  Army  Discharge  Papers  would  have  been 
more  to  the  point.  And  most  to  the  point  of  all  was  that 
the  rascal  had  completely  hoodwinked  me. 

For,  standing  there  among  hoops  and  grace-sticks,  string 
shoes  and  cards  of  bijouterie,  caoutchouc  bathing-caps  and 
all  the  one- franc-fifty  fal-lals  of  the  Bazaar,  alone  and  for 
the  moment  with  her  back  to  us,  was  Jennie  Aird. 


VI 

This  time  if  he  wanted  French  he  had  it — off  the  ice. 

"Touche — et  merci,  Monsieur.     Bonjour." 

I  bowed,  stepped  forward,  and  placed  myself  between 
him  and  Jennie.  I  touched  her  elbow. 

"I  saw  you  come  in.  Are  you  nearly  ready?  We  shall 
be  late." 

I  was  the  angrier  that  it  was  with  myself  that  I  was 
chiefly  angry.  Jennie,  giving  me  only  the  tail  of  her  glance, 
turned  to  her  choice  of  a  bathing-cap  again — the  yellow 
one  or  the  green  one.  My  back  was  towards  Rose,  but  I 
heard  a  saleswoman  step  up  to  him. 

"Rien,  merci — j 'attends  M'sieur,"  he  said. 

Jennie  too  heard,  and  turned. 

There  was  no  atmosphere  of  soft  and  factitious  half- 
illumination  now.  This  was  the  full  blaze  of  a  perfect 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  247 

August  midday,  that  flooded  the  shop  with  sunshine  and 
made  a  dazzle  of  Jennie's  little  white  hat  with  the  cord 
about  it,  of  the  burnished  hair  beneath.  The  sleeves  of  her 
white  frock  were  cut  short  above  the  dimple  of  her  elbow, 
the  tiny  blue  ribbon  across  her  shoulders  peeped  through. 
She  in  her  sunny  white,  he  in  black  vareuse  and  corduroys 
brown  as  a  wintry  coppice,  again  stood  looking  one  at  the 
other. 

And  for  the  second  time  within  the  course  of  a  sun  I 
saw  the  world  begin  anew,  as  it  begins  anew  for  some  he, 
for  some  she,  with  every  moment  that  passes.  For  the 
beginning  of  the  cradle  is  not  the  real  beginning.  That  is 
only  the  end  of  the  darkness  of  forebeing  that  is  pierced 
with  a  woman's  pang.  That  is  still  an  uneasy  slumber,  yea, 
even  though  it  weakly  smile,  and  by  and  by  stumble  over 
its  syllables,  and  stumble  over  its  own  uncertain  feet,  and 
walk,  and  spell,  and  use  a  tennis-racket.  It  is  incomplete, 
and  will  never  be  complete  in  itself.  It  is  completed  in 
that  moment  when  its  eyes  open  on  other  eyes,  and  the  won- 
der kindles  there,  and  the  ground  underfoot  is  forgotten, 
and  the  surrounding  sunlight  is  forgotten,  and  nothing  is 
remembered  except  that  those  eyes  have  found  their  other- 
own  eyes,  and,  though  they  lose  them  again  in  that  same 
instant,  never  to  see  them  again,  will  remember  them  in  the 
hour  when  the  shadow  closes  over  all.  That,  that  re-begins 
the  cycle,  is  our  real  beginning.  It  was  that  which,  in  that 
tawdry  Bazaar,  turned  the  golden  sunlight  to  a  nimbus 
about  us. 

Again  I  touched  her. 

"The  yellow  one,  is  it  ?    Let  me  put  it  in  my  pocket." 

I  had  secured  her  arm.  I  picked  up  for  her  the  horrible 
fifty-centime  notes  of  her  change.  She  had  dropped  her 
eyes,  and  her  face  was  as  rich-coloured  as  her  lips,  her  lips 
a  pulpy  quiver.  I  felt  the  touch  of  Berry's  hand  on  my 
sleeve,  but  I  disregarded  it.  I  felt  bitterly  towards  him. 

"Come  along,  my  dear,"  I  said;  and  I  pushed  her  past 
him. 

Yet  if,  as  he  had  said,  he  wished  merely  to  see  her,  merely 


248  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

to  speak  with  her,  he  had  half  his  wish  in  that  moment. 
Her  left  arm  was  in  my  right  one,  I  between  her  and  him. 
Suddenly,  blush  or  no  blush,  she  lifted  her  head.  Behind 
me,  she  looked  full  at  him.  For  two,  three  paces  her  head 
and  shoulders  continued  to  turn.  I  set  my  lips  and  looked 
straight  ahead. 

Then  her  head  dropped  again.  Her  teeth  caught  at  her 
upper  lip.  For  a  moment  she  was  a  limp  weight  on  my  arm. 
We  left  the  shop. 

I  saw  his  face  at  the  window  as  we  passed.  Whether 
or  not  he  stepped  to  the  door  to  watch  us  out  of  sight  I 
do  not  know. 

I  say  that  it  was  with  myself  that  I  was  chiefly  angry; 
but  I  have  never  found  that  a  particularly  mollifying  re- 
flection. As  I  have  seen  a  man  get  rid  of  an  undesired 
guest  by  blandly  pressing  him  to  stay  but  leading  him 
gently  by  the  arm  all  the  time  nearer  to  the  door,  so  our 
young  man  had  used  me.  I  had  been  piloted  here,  there,  in 
whichever  direction  he  had  wished.  And  as  for  Jennie's 
long  backward  look  and  turn  of  the  head  .  .  .  well,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  thing  might  now  be  regarded  as  done. 
It  did  not  need  me  to  murmur  "Jennie,  this  is  M.  Arnaud — 
Miss  Aird."  The  back  door  into  Alec  Aird's  jealously- 
guarded  house  was  set  ajar,  and  I,  the  only  one  who  could 
have  watched  it,  had  failed  to  do  so.  I  frowned,  watching 
her  white-clad  feet  moving  on  the  sunny  pavement.  I 
avoided  looking  at  her  face.  I  knew  that  she  equally  avoided 
looking  at  mine. 

Of  one  thing  I  was  perfectly  sure:  she  would  not  of  her 
own  accord  speak  of  the  young  man  we  had  just  left.  Per- 
haps it  was  that  there  are  some  things  which,  unless  you 
out  with  them  at  once,  become  more  and  more  difficult  with 
every  moment  that  passes.  Many  a  close  secret  was  not  a 
secret  at  all  in  the  beginning ;  it  merely  became  one.  There- 
fore she  was  already  showing  obstinacy.  She  knew  that  I 
knew  about  that  look.  She  had  looked  openly,  deliberately, 
as  careless  of  my  presence  as  if  I  had  not  been  there.  And 
in  that  critical  moment  it  was  a  toss-up  what  my  relations 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  249 

with  my  friend's  seventeen-years-old  daughter  were  to  be. 
She  might,  suddenly  and  swiftly,  break  into  an  emotional 
confession.  On  the  other  hand  she  might  thenceforward 
bear  me  an  unspoken  grudge  that  I  knew  anything  about  her 
affairs  at  all. 

I  noticed  that  she  carried  no  tennis  racket.  I  therefore 
asked  her,  as  we  crossed  the  emptying  Place  du  Commerce, 
whether  she  had  left  it  at  the  Club. 

"No,"'  she  said. 

"Haven't  you  been  playing  this  morning?" 

"No." 

"Too  tired  after  the  party  last  night?" 

"No." 

"I  was  wondering — but  I  suppose  you've  far  more  amus- 
ing things  to  do  than  to  come  for  a  walk  with  me  this  after- 
noon." 

In  those  few  words  the  whole  situation  trembled  as  in  a 
balance.  If  she  said  Yes,  much  might  follow;  if  No,  then 
resentment  would  be  my  portion. 

We  continued  to  ascend  the  high-walled  street,  past  tall 
garden  gates  and  notice-boards — "A  Vendre,"  "Locations," 
"Agence  Boutin."  We  passed  Beausejour,  Primavera,  Les 
Cyclamens.  .  .  . 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  looked  sideways  at  me. 

"I  should  like  to,"  she  said. 

I  was  still  angry  with  myself  and  him.  He  was  probably 
right  in  refusing  the  only  definite  suggestion  I  had  found 
to  make,  namely,  that  he  should  permit  me  to  tell  my  host 
and  hostess  the  whole  story.  But  if  his  alternative  was  to 
lie  in  wait  for  her  in  the  streets  and  shops  of  a  French 
summer  resort  and  to  hang  about  the  open  windows  of  the 
house  at  night,  I  felt  very  strongly  about  it.  He  was  going 
to  be  wily  and  masterful,  was  he?  He,  swaying  on  a  tight- 
rope of  time,  was  going  to  claim  the  treatment  of  a  normal 
man?  Well,  that  remained  to  be  seen.  The  cold  shoulder 
for  a  day  or  two  might  bring  him  to  a  more  reasonable 
view.  Anyway,  after  our  encounter  in  the  Bazaar,  he  could 
hardly  pretend  not  to  know  my  mind. 


250  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

And  yet  (I  asked  myself  as  my  anger  began  to  wear  itself 
out),  who  can  know  the  mind  of  a  man  who  does  not  know 
his  own?  More,  when  was  anything  that  mattered  ever 
settled  by  chop-logic  of  the  sort  that  set  my  head  spinning? 
Why,  his  brilliant  beauty  alone  laughed  to  nothing  all  my 
attempts  to  get  him  off  my  mind.  And  suddenly  my  mind 
flashed  back,  back,  it  seemed  interminable  years  back.  There 
sprang  up  in  my  memory  a  lecture  I  had  once  attended  at 
the  Society  of  Arts,  a  cutting  I  had  taken  from  an  article 
in  The  Times. 

"Human  beings,"  said  the  article,  "differ  not  only  in  the 
knowledge  they  have  acquired,  but  in  their  dower  of  in- 
telligence or  natural  ability.  The  latter  has  a  maximum 
for  each  individual,  attained  early  in  life.  Sixteen  years 
has  usually  been  taken  as  the  age  at  which,  even  in  those 
best  endowed,  the  limit  of  intelligence  has  been  reached." 

Say  that  this  was  so ;  whither  did  it  now  lead  ? 

A  staggering  vista  to  open  before  a  middle-aged-to-elderly 
gentleman  like  myself,  on  his  way  to  luncheon  at  a  riant 
holiday  villa  with  a  moody  and  beautiful  young  creature  of 
seventeen  by  his  side! 

For  it  seemed  to  me  to  lead  like  a  ray  straight  into  the 
blinding  heart  of  the  Sun  of  Life.  The  mind  blinked  in  its 
attempt  to  follow  it;  I  believe  I  actually  passed  my  hand 
over  my  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  a  physical  dazzling.  I  have 
said  a  little,  a  very  little,  about  Derwent  Rose's  books ;  but 
how  if  they,  foursquare  and  strongly-built  as  they  were, 
were  merely  external  things,  well  enough  in  their  way,  but 
clogged  in  the  gross  and  unwieldy  medium  through  which 
his  central  fire  and  power  torturedly  struggled?  How  if  a 
more  essential  beauty  should  presently  appear,  free  of  these 
trammels  of  process,  independent  of  acquirement  and  pain- 
ful lore,  dissociated  from  performance — shining,  self-suffi- 
cient, its  mere  existence  its  own  justification  and  law? 
"Every  morning  of  my  life,"  he  had  once  said,  "I've  tried 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  251 

to  wake  up  as  if  that  was  the  first  day  of  the  world."  Was 
he  now  on  the  way  to  his  fulfilment?  Was  that  first  morn- 
ing actually  about  to  dawn  for  him?  Was  an  early  sun 
about  to  rise  on  a  creature  not  ready-made,  not  pre-in- 
structed,  unfettered  by  the  prejudice  of  a  single  word,  but 
man  given  to  all  understanding,  man  at  the  moment  of  his 
perfection,  man  liberated,  and  without  a  name  or  foothold 
in  the  human  world? 

A  pretty  speculation,  I  say,  for  a  humdrum  old  gentle- 
man going  home  to  luncheon ! 

Luncheon  over,  I  took  a  liqueur  with  Alec  in  the  pergola. 
The  lattice  of  shadow  flecked  the  ascending  smoke  from  his 
pipe. 

"By  the  way,  what  became  of  you  last  night?  You  didn't 
go  on  to  the  Casino,  did  you  ?"  he  said. 

"No.    I  took  a  walk." 

"I  heard  you  come  in.  The  others  had  only  just  gone  to 
bed.  And  of  course  Jennie  was  dog-tired  and  went  upstairs 
with  a  headache." 

"Well,  she's  coming  for  a  walk  with  me  this  afternoon." 

"Then  for  goodness'  sake  take  her  somewhere  quiet.  It 
isn't  my  idea  of  a  holiday  that  you  have  to  take  a  rest-cure 
after  it." 

I  laughed.  "I'll  look  after  her.  But  when  I'm  with 
Jennie  I  like  as  many  people  as  possible  to  see  me  with 
Jennie." 

"Then  tell  her  that  and  shake  her  out  of  herself,  you  old 
humbug.  Hanged  if  I'd  trust  her  with  you  if  you  were  a 
few  years  younger." 

"You'll  have  to  trust  her  with  somebody  presently." 

"Plenty  of  time  for  that  yet,"  Alec  grunted.  "I've  got 
my  eye  on  it  all  right.  .  .  .  Well,  if  you're  going  out  I'm 
going  to  have  forty  of  the  best.  Watch  me  fade  away " 

He  proceeded  to  "fade  away,"  while  the  shadows  crept 
over  the  ascending  smoke  from  his  pipe  on  the  table. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  I  was  content  to  forego  my 
pride  in  being  seen  with  Jennie  by  my  side.  Just  a  quiet 


252  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

cliff -path  not  too  far  away  would  do.  There  is  much  to  be 
said  for  a  quiet  cliff-path  when  a  young  woman  feels  the 
first  sweet  trouble  at  her  heart. 

I  left  the  completely  faded-away  Alec  as  I  heard  her  step 
at  the  door  of  the  house.  She  looked  me  straight  in  the 
eyes,  as  if  it  would  be  at  my  peril  did  I  notice  anything  the 
matter  with  her  own  pebble-grey  ones.  We  passed  out, 
took  the  steep  secluded  lane  towards  the  tea-cabin  above  St 
Enogat  plage,  and  then  descended  the  hewn  steps  to  the 
shore.  It  is  a  tiny  plage,  remarkably  steep,  bordered  with 
villas  that  resemble  their  own  bathing-tents,  and  with  a 
path  that  winds  up  the  rocks  beyond.  We  did  not  speak  as 
we  crossed  the  plage  and  began  to  climb. 

Along  that  deeply  indented  coast  you  do  a  lot  of  walking 
for  the  distance  forrarder  you  get,  and  also  a  good  deal  of 
up-and-down  round  rocky  gulfs  with  the  bottle-green  water 
heaving  lazily  below.  But  over  the  seaward  walls  of  villa 
and  chateau  peep  valerian  and  fig,  and  the  path  is  coral- 
sprinkled  with  pimpernel  and  enamelled  with  convolvulus 
and  borage  and  the  hosts  of  smaller  flowers.  Away  ahead 
the  demi-tower  of  a  sea-mark  rose  chalk-white  against  the 
deep  blue,  with  the  airy  point  of  St  Lunaire  beyond.  We 
approached  a  small  field  of  marguerites,  so  eagerly  open 
to  the  afternoon  sun  that  at  a  short  distance  they  were  not 
white  at  all,  but  pale  honey-yellow  with  the  offering  of  their 
golden  hearts.  Poppies  flamed  among  them,  and  the  cigales 
crackled  like  ceaselessly-running  insect  machinery.  From 
the  cliff's  foot  came  the  lazy  breaking  of  the  waves.  That, 
I  thought,  was  quite  a  pleasant  place.  Even  Alec  would 
have  approved  of  it.  We  sat  down  between  the  staring  mar- 
guerites and  the  sea. 

I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  Jennie  in  a  fatherly  or  avuncu- 
lar manner.  One  had  better  not  have  been  born  than  not 
be  simple  with  the  heart  of  a  young  girl.  At  the  faintest 
trace  of  a  smile  it  will  close  against  you  for  ever,  and 
wonder  follows  wonder  so  quickly  over  it  that  it  will  be  a 
long  time  before  you  get  your  second  chance.  So  do  not 
tell  it  that  it  will  think  differently  about  things  to-morrow. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  .    253 

It  is  you  who  will  think  differently  to-morrow  if  you  do. 
I  say  in  all  sincerity  that,  in  that  long  pause  between  my 
asking  Jennie  to  come  for  a  walk  with  me  arid  her  ac- 
ceptance, I  had  felt  a  suspense  as  real  as  any  I  ever  felt.  If 
that  pivotal  moment  on  which  the  oncoming  generation 
turns  is  not  to  be  gravely  considered,  I  know  of  no  other 
moment  that  need  greatly  trouble  us. 

So  I  listened  to  the  treble  of  the  cigales  and  the  soft  deep 
bass  of  the  sea,  and  the  silence  continued  between  us.  She 
picked  and  nibbled  florets  of  clover,  her  eyes  far  away. 
Her  gaze  wandered  to  butterflies,  to  a  lizard  that  disap- 
peared with  a  glint  of  bronze  into  a  cranny,  to  a  ladybird 
that  alighted  on  her  forearm. 

Then  the  largest  tear  I  have  ever  seen  brimmed,  trickled 
and  dropped. 

On  leaving  the  house  she  had  dared  me  to  notice  anything 
about  her  eyes;  but  it  is  another  matter  when  a  tear  so 
engulfs  a  ladybird  that  it  is  a  question  whether  the  crea- 
ture's pretty  wing-cases  will  ever  be  the  same  again.  I  had 
to  speak  after  that. 

"Cheer  up,  Jennie,"  I  said  softly. 

She  gulped.  "Why  were  you  so  horrid  and  cross  with 
him!" 

"This  morning  in  the  shop?" 

"Yes." 

"Well  ...  I  fancied  he'd  played  me  rather  a  mean  trick." 

"He  didn't !"  she  flashed.  "I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  do  any- 
thing mean !" 

"Then  say  a  trick  I  didn't  expect  from  him." 

"1  heard  him  tell  the  woman  in  the  shop  he  was  waiting 
for  you,  and — and  you  walked  straight  past  him  without 
looking  at  him !" 

"It  might  have  been  better  if  you'd  done  the  same,  Jennie." 

"Did  he  come  to  fetch  you  out  last  night  ?" 

"I  took  him  out." 

"Is  he  the — the  Monsieur  Arnaud  the  maid  meant  ?" 

"That's  the  name  he  goes  by." 

"Isn't  it  his  name?" 


254  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"I  suppose  it  is." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  it  like  that?  ...  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  about  him,  Uncle  George,  please,"  she  ordered  me. 

I  too  wanted  to  do  that;  but  I  found  it  anything  but 
simple.  I  might  have  told  her  that  he  was  simply  a  vagrant, 
just  a  fellow  who  wandered  about  sketching,  here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow.  That  would  have  been  perfectly  true. 
But  it  would  have  been  equally  untrue.  That  was  no  pic- 
ture of  Derry.  She  had  seen  a  far,  far  truer  picture  of 
him  when  she  had  turned  her  head  towards  him  in  the  toy- 
shop. 

"Well,  of  course  that  is  why  I  asked  you  to  come  for  a 
walk  this  afternoon,  Jennie,"  I  said  slowly.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact  M'sieur  Arnaud's  had  a  very  curious  experience  that 
I  can't  very  well  tell  you  about.  The  result  of  this  is  that 
he's — a  rather  odd  sort  of  person  to  know.  In  fact  he's 
better  not  known.  He  wanted  me  to  introduce  him  to  your 
mother,  and  I  told  him  I'd  rather  not  do  so.  Anyway  he's 
going  away  soon." 

"That  doesn't  sound  like  a  horrid  sort  of  person,"  she 
commented.  "Is  that  why  he  came  last  night — to  be  intro- 
duced to  mother?" 

"No,  he  came  for  something  quite  different  last  night." 

"What?" 

Here  again  I  might  have  answered  with  a  certain  appear- 
ance of  truth  that  he  had  come  for  money,  though  it  was 
his  own  money ;  but  that  too  would  be  to  misrepresent  him. 
The  cigales  crackled  loudly.  I  suppose  the  ladybird  was 
all  right  again,  for  it  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  mused, 
and  then  turned  to  her. 

"You  said  yesterday  that  you  wished  you  were  back  in 
England,  Jennie,"  I  said.  "How  would  you  like  to  come 
and  stay  with  me  in  Surrey  for  a  bit?" 

"No  thank  you,  Uncle  George.     Thank  you  very  much." 

"It's  quite  jolly  there  in  its  way,  and  I  dare  say  I  could 
get  somebody  quite  nice  to  be  with  you." 

"I  should  like  to  some  day,  of  course,"  she  said,  "but  not 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  255 

just  now,  if  you  don't  think  it  horrid  of  me."  And  she 
added,  "I  love  being  here." 

"Since  yesterday?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

Of  course  I  had  not  expected  for  a  moment  that  she 
would  say  Yes,  even  had  I  made  up  my  own  mind  to  aban- 
don Derry  to  his  fate,  which  I  had  not  done.  Yet  a  thought 
flashed  into  my  mind.  Were  I  to  return  to  England,  taking 
Jennie  with  me,  Derry  would  still  not  be  unlooked-after. 
The  moment  I  left,  Julia  Oliphant,  I  felt  certain,  would  fly 
to  his  side.  And  if  Jennie  would  not  come  with  me,  what 
would  the  impossible  combination  be  then?  .  .  .  My  half- 
formed  thought  became  a  sudden  picture,  a  contrast,  vivid 
and  arresting,  between  two  women — the  one  who  experi- 
mented with  her  dress  and  wanted  to  know  what  a  cocktail 
tasted  like,  the  other  this  fragrant  hawthorn-bough  by  my 
side.  And  between  the  two  rose  his  grave  and  sunbrowned 
face.  .  .  . 

I  stared  at  my  picture,  fascinated.  The  three  of  them 
together !  Exquisite  and  horrible  complication !  Suppose 
it  should  ever  come  to  that ! 

Then  the  picture  vanished,  and  I  saw  the  translucent  un- 
twinkling  sea.  The  roofs  of  distant  St  Lunaire  made  a 
pale  cluster  of  brightness.  The  wind  rippled  the  edges  of 
the  satiny  poppies. 

All  at  once  she  clutched  my  sleeve  with  both  her  hands 
and  buried  her  face  against  it.  It  broke,  the  storm  that  had 
been  pent  up  for  nearly  twenty  hours.  As  the  marguerites 
exposed  their  yearning  golden  hearts,  so  she  kept  nothing 
back,  laid  bare  her  own  heart  to  the  sun  that  was  its  lord. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do !  I  can't  bear  it ;  it's 
too — too — oh,  tell  me  what  to  do,  Uncle  George!  I  know 
he's  my  darling!  I  don't  want  to  live  without  him!  If  he 
goes  away  I  don't  know  what  will  happen!  It's  all  since 
yesterday — I  didn't  sleep  a  wink — I  went  out  into  the  garden 
when  they'd  all  gone  and  stood  in  the  same  place.  Then  I 
heard  father  moving  about  and  hid.  ...  And  then  this 


256  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

morning  when  you  were  horrid  to  him — no,  you  weren't 
horrid,  dear  Uncle  George — I  know  it's  all  a  stupid  mis- 
take— I  love  him !  I  don't  care  if  he  doesn't  speak  a  word 
of  English.  I  want  him  here  now !  I  want  to  be  with  him ! 
Please,  please  introduce  him  to  mother.  She  loves  French 
people.  And  he  did  ask  you  to,  so  he  can't  be  horrid.  I'm 
sure  he  didn't  mean  to  play  you  a  mean  trick.  There  must 
be  a  mistake.  I'm  sure  he  can  explain  if  you'll  let  him. 
Dear,  dear  Uncle  George — do,  do !" 

I  put  my  hand  on  her  hat,  which  was  as  much  of  her  as  I 
could  see. 

"Don't  look  at  me,  please — I  don't  want  to  move  for  just 
a  minute." 

"As  long  as  you  like,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  anything  if  you  only  will!  Where  is  he 
staying?  I  never  saw  him  in  Dinard  before.  Where  is  he 
staying?  Does  he  live  here  all  the  time?  I  could  see  him 
if  you  came  too,  couldn't  I  ?  And  I  don't  care  what  sort  of 
clothes  he  wears  .  .  .  do,  do,  Uncle  George!" 

Then  she  straightened  herself,  and  looked  full  at  me 
through  her  flooded  eyes.  She  was  suddenly  imperious. 

"Now  tell  me  something  else,  please.  When  you  went 
off  with  him  last  night.  Did  he  say  anything  about  me  ?" 

Perhaps  I  did  not  lie  with  sufficient  promptitude.  "About 
you  ?  No,  of  course  not." 

She  looked  accusingly  at  me;  she  caught  her  breath. 

"Oh,  how  can  you  say  that !    I  don't  believe  it !    He  did !" 

"But  he  couldn't  even  see  you  in  the  dark !" 

"It  wasn't  dark — it  wasn't  a  bit  dark — it  was  quite  light 
enough  to  see  anybody — you  saw  him " 

"Well,  he's  going  away,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

Like  a  rainbow  was  the  light  that  woke  in  her  lately 
showering  eyes.  Up  went  the  soft  lip,  out  peeped  the  pearls. 
Back,  back  from  their  golden  hearts  lay  the  petals  of  the 
marguerites. 

"If,"  she  said  with  extreme  slowness,  "if  he  told  you  he 
was  going  away,  that  must  have  been  last  night." 

I  was  dumb.    I  saw  her  effort  to  close  her  inner  eyes  on 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  257 

the  light  that  broke  on  them,  lest  a  wonder  on  a  wonder 
should  prove  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"That  was  last  night!"  the  triumphant  words  rang  out. 

I  suppose  there  is  no  such  thing  as  one  half  of  a  miracle 
without  the  other 

"That  was  last  night,  and  there  hadn't  been  a  this  morn- 
ing then,  and  he  hadn't  seen  me  when  I  was  buying  my 
bathing-cap,  and  if  he  said  he  was  going  away  he's  changed 
his  mind  and  he  isn't  going  away  at  all !  Neither  of  us  is 
going  away!  Oh-h-h!"  (That  "Oh"  echoes  in  my  heart 
still.)  "He  isn't  even  thinking  of  going  now!  Because  we 
both  know  now — we  knew  in  the  shop — and  he  loves  me 
too!" 

Just  to  see  one  another — just  to  speak  to  one  another — 
that  was  all  they  asked  of  me. 


PART  II 
THE  EVEN  KEEL 


That  evening  I  sat  in  Ker  Annie,  alone.  Alec  and  Madge 
had  gone  out  for  an  after-dinner  walk,  taking  a  silent  Jennie 
with  them.  Silent  too  had  been  our  return  along  the  cliff- 
tops  that  afternoon.  Whether  she  already  regretted  having 
opened  her  heart  to  me  I  could  not  tell. 

I  sat  at  the  open  window  of  the  salon,  looking  out  over  the 
sea  that  showed  pale  milky  green  against  the  heavy  sunset 
bank.  Inside  the  room  Ganymede  and  the  Eagle  had  been 
lighted,  and  my  shadow  streamed  down  the  steps  and  was 
lost  in  the  darkening  garden.  It  was  not  a  cold  evening, 
and  yet  I  felt  a  little  cold.  No  fire  was  laid  behind  the 
drawn-down  iron  shutter  where  Alec  threw  his  crumpled 
tobacco  packets,  and  it  was  hardly  worth  while  troubling 
a  maid.  I  closed  the  window,  crossed  to  the  shuttered 
fireplace,  and  sat  down  in  a  striped  tapestried  chair. 

What  had  become  of  my  illusion  that  certain  things  could 
not  exist  in  this  clear  atmosphere  of  Northern  France? 
No  man  with  two  memories  bathe  in  that  milky  green  sea  I 
had  just  shut  out?  But  he  had  swum  it.  No  man  of  forty- 
five  masquerade  as  a  quarter  of  a  century  younger  in  this 
broomy,  thymy  air  ?  But  here  he  was.  ...  I  looked  round 
the  little  salon,  as  if  its  spurious  gaiety  had  misled  me. 
Across  the  varnished  ceiling  the  lamp-chains  threw  strag- 
gling spider's  webs  of  shadow.  In  one  gilt  oval  mirror  a 
corner  of  the  lamp  was  duplicated,  in  another  re-duplicated. 
Everywhere  were  bits  of  inessential  decoration,  the  trophy 
of  Senegalese  spears  over  the  door,  the  fringed  and  fretted 
bracket  with  nothing  on  it,  a  bronze  fingerplate,  a  bit  of 
lace  or  coloured  glass,  all  the  rest  of  the  quick  artifice  with 
which  that  great  nation  diverts  attention  from  its  naked 
purpose  in  life — to  wring  from  everything  the  last  benefit 

261 


262  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

the  occasion  will  yield.  Or  so  at  any  rate  it  seemed  to  me 
that  night,  as  my  eyes  rested  on  the  wriggling  gilt  ribbons 
of  the  mirrors  and  Ganymede  struggling  in  the  Eagle's 
clutch. 

When  Alec  Aird  had  greeted  me  on  Dinard  Cale  he  had 
glanced  at  the  two  suit-cases  I  had  thrown  ashore  and  asked 
me  whether  that  was  all  the  gear  I  had  brought  with  me. 
And  it  is  true  that  one  cannot  stay  many  weeks  in  a  place  on 
the  resources  of  two  suit-cases.  But  the  length  or  shortness 
of  my  stay  was  now  only  part  of  a  wider  issue.  The  ques- 
tion was,  not  how  long  I  was  to  stay,  but  how  I  was  ever 
going  to  leave  until  Derry  was  ready  to  come  with  me.  Was 
he  likely  to  come  now?  Would  anything  drag  him  away? 
Hardly !  Jennie  was  perfectly  right :  "He  isn't  even  think- 
ing of  leaving,  because  we  both  know  now — we  knew  in 
the  shop — and  he  loves  me  too!" 

A  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  I  reflected,  looking  at  the  empty 
brackets  and  the  spears  over  the  doorway.  .  .  . 

For  it  was  all  very  well  to  talk  about  only  seeing  one  an- 
other, only  speaking  to  one  another.  How  long  was  that 
likely  to  last  ?  How  long  had  it  lasted  Julia  Oliphant  ?  Just 
as  long  as  it  had  taken  her  to  help  herself  to  more.  True, 
Julia  was  not  a  sleeping,  but  a  particularly  wide-awake 
beauty.  Julia  was  not  Jennie.  For  the  glimmers  of  star- 
light that  Julia  had  formerly  brought  into  his  life  Jennie 
had  now  given  him  the  sun  itself.  Both  had  known  it  in 
that  long  exchange  of  eyes  in  the  Dinard  Bazaar  that 
morning. 

Therefore  I  feared  that,  while  Julia  had  produced  in  him 
an  aberration  grave  enough  but  still  only  of  the  second 
magnitude,  Jennie  might  now  unwittingly  bring  about  a 
cataclysm  indeed.  For  he  himself  had  said  that  his  chances 
of  stability  lay  in  an  even  and  unexciting  tenor  of  life.  He 
must  sail,  so  to  speak,  on  an  even  keel.  Calmly  and  equably 
he  must  pick  his  way  through  this  beautiful  and  passionate 
wonder.  He  must  lash  the  wheel  of  his  will  lest  the  lightest 
of  her  sighs  should  drive  him  rail-under.  A  glance  might 
mean  the  loss  of  years  to  him,  a  kiss  death.  .  .  .  Others 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  263 

than  I  have  told  of  loves  between  two  normal  creatures,  if 
such  in  love  there  be.  I  am  the  first,  since  a  mortal  fell  in 
love  with  a  god,  to  tell  of  lovers  whose  lives  met  as  they 
approached  each  other  from  opposite  directions. 

Yet — only  to  see  one  another,  only  to  speak  to  one  an- 
other! Who  with  a  heart  could  refuse  them  that?  Who, 
only  looking  at  them,  he  serious  and  radiant,  she  as  I  had 
seen  her  among  the  marguerites  that  afternoon  ?  Love  was 
first  invented  for  such  as  they.  Could  he  but  have  slept, 
like  Endymion,  in  his  loveliness  for  ever!  .  .  .  You  see 
what  had  already  become  of  my  momentary  anger  against 
him.  It  was  quite,  quite  gone.  He  was  once  more  my  son, 
outside  whose  door  I  had  paused  with  a  sick  dread  that  very 
morning. 

And  as  love  of  him  re-possessed  me  the  marvel  grew  that 
he  should  so  have  survived  that  shock  of  beauty  and  emo- 
tion that  had  been  his  where  the  cars  had  stood  parked  in 
the  transparent  gloom.  "Who  was  that  with  you  in  the 
garden,  George  ?"  his  ardent  whisper  seemed  to  sound  again. 
Was  it  possible  that  there  were  two  loves,  the  one  shattering, 
ruinous,  destructive  of  the  few  years  of  his  life,  but  the 
other  full  of  security,  healing  and  rest?  Was  there  indeed  a 
Love  Sacred  and  a  Love  Profane?  (Yet  who  would  call 
Julia  Oliphant's  love  for  him  profane?  He  himself,  since 
he  had  always  refused  it?  Surely  none  other.)  And  I  re- 
membered his  own  halting  surmises  as  to  the  origin  of  his 
singular  fate.  He  had  known  heaven  and  hell — had  "been 
too  close  to  the  balm  or  the  other  thing."  God  (he  had 
said)  was  more  than  a  gland ;  not  a  knock  on  the  head  in  the 
war,  but  the  contending  angels  themselves  of  Good  and  Evil 
had  brought  him  to  this.  The  one  principle  had  fetched 
down  his  years  all  clattering  about  him  on  that  moonlit 
night  when  the  cracking  of  a  cone  on  my  balcony  had 
brought  me  out  of  my  bed.  Was  the  opposite  principle  now 
about  to  expunge  that  other  ill,  to  restore  him,  and  to  make 
him  a  whole  and  forward-living  man  again?  He  believed 
that  there  was  a  chance  of  it.  Was  it  too  utterly  beyond 
belief  after  all? 


264  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Did  it  prove  to  be  true,  then  all  was  heavenly  clear.  His 
new  life  would  be  what  we  all  sigh  that  our  lives  were  not 
— no  blind  groping  in  the  night  of  ignorance  and  doubt,  but 
the  angelic  victory  over  the  hosts  of  darkness.  He  was 
nineteen  and  unburdened  of  his  sin,  she  seventeen  and  sin- 
less. They  would  marry.  One  marriage  such  as  theirs 
might  at  the  last  be  enough  to  rehabilitate  the  despairing 
world.  Instead  of  being  in  his  own  person  a  public  peril 
he  might  be  society's  hope  and  stay. 

And — I  found  my  excitement  quickening — so  far  all  was 
well.  "Entrezl"  the  bright  voice  that  might  have  been 
silent  for  ever  had  called,  and  I  had  entered  to  find  him 
humming  over  a  paint-box. 

Surely  he  knew  about  himself  if  anybody  did — 

And  he  thought  he  could  keep  on  an  even  keel — 

There  broke  in  on  my  musing  the  sudden  sound  of  voices. 
The  Airds  were  returning  from  their  walk.  Madge  tapped 
at  the  window,  the  catch  of  which  I  had  turned,  and  she  and 
Alec  entered.  Jennie  walked  straight  past,  and  I  heard  her 
step  in  the  hall,  then  on  the  stairs.  Apparently  she  was 
going  straight  to  bed. 

"Then  if  he's  English  what  the  devil  does  he  wear  those 
clothes  for  ?"  Alec  demanded  as  he  closed  the  window  again. 

"Mon  ami,  as  he  hasn't  consulted  me  about  his  clothes  I 
don't  know." 

"Where  did  Jennie  pick  him  up?" 

"Don't  speak  as  if  he  was  a  germ.  And  do  make  a  tee-ny 
effort  to  be  a  little  less  insular,  my  dear.  'When  the  Lord 
said  all  men  He  included  me.'  ' 

"We  aren't  in  heaven.    We're  in  Dinard." 

"Among  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  French,"  said  Madge 
cheerfully.  "Why  shouldn't  he  speak  good  French  instead 
of  your  eternal  'Donnes-moi'  and  'Combieri?  Why 
shouldn't  a  thing  mean  something  simply  because  it  isn't  in 
English?  You'd  better  go  home  and  go  to  Lords'.  .  .  . 
George,  you've  been  asleep!" 

If  I  had  I  was  very  far  from  being  asleep  now.  If  my 
ears  told  me  truly,  since  leaving  Ker  Annie  the  Airds  had 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  265 

met,  and  had  spoken  to,  Derwent  Rose.  Alec  crossed  to  the 
fireplace,  lifted  the  shutter,  knocked  out  his  pipe,  and  took 
up  the  running  again. 

"And  what  on  earth  made  Jennie  speak  to  him  in  French?" 

"Jennie's  quite  right  to  practise  her  French." 

"You  don't  practise  French  on  a  fellow  who  says  he's  an 
Englishman — porter's  blouse  or  no  porter's  blouse.  I  can 
hardly  imagine  she  spoke  to  him  without  knowing  something 
about  him." 

"As  you  and  I  were  there,  very  likely  not,"  said  Madge 
dryly. 

"Anyway  I  marched  Jennie  on  ahead,"  Alec  growled. 
"Confounded  mixed  foreign  company — wish  we'd  never 
come  here " 

"I,"  said  Madge  serenely,  "found  him  entirely  and  alto- 
gether charming,  as  well  as  being  one  of  the  handsomest 
boys  I've  ever  seen.  And  he's  coming  to  have  tea  with  me. 
.  .  .  This,  George,"  she  turned  to  me,  "is  a  friend  of  Jen- 
nie's we  met  while  we  were  out.  He'd  been  making  a  sketch 
of  the  sunset  and  was  just  packing  up,  so  we  walked  along 
together.  Oh  yes,  I  know — I  ought  to  be  ashamed  at  my 
time  of  life — but  he's  the  most  adorable  creature !  A  good 
deal  like  your  Derwent  Rose  to  look  at — very  like  him,  in 
fact — though  of  course  the  Bear's  old  enough  to  be  his 
father.  And  listen  to  Alec,  just  because  he  was  dressed  as 
half  the  English  and  American  students  in  Paris  are  dressed ! 
I  don't  know  whether  Jennie's  fallen  in  love  with  him,  but 
/have!" 

"And  if  he's  English  what's  he  called  Arnaud  for?"  Alec 
demanded  with  renewed  suspicion. 

"Dear  but  simple  husband,  possibly  he  had  a  French 
father.  Such  things  have  been  heard  of,  even  in  that  Rough 
Island's  Story  of  yours.  If  you'll  make  me  out  a  list  of  the 
questions  you  want  asked  I'll  get  it  all  out  of  him  when  he 
comes  to  tea.  In  the  meantime— unless  George  would  like  to 
take  me  on  the  Casino  for  an  hour— I  think  I  shall  go  to 
bed.  Feel  like  a  modest  flutter,  George?" 

I  shook  my  head. 


266  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Then  bed.  I'll  dream  I  won  a  lot  of  money.  Unless  I 
dream  of  young  Arnaud.  Don't  let  Alec  fall  asleep  in  his 
chair.  Dors  bien " 

She  tripped  out  under  the  trophy  of  assegais. 

I  was  hardly  five  minutes  behind  her.  Slowly  I  ascended 
to  my  room,  crossed  to  the  window,  and  leaned  out  over  the 
balcony. 

So  that  was  that.  Simply,  and  without  any  fuss  at  all, 
his  foot  was  in  the  door  of  Ker  Annie.  The  whole  thing 
had  taken  almost  exactly  twenty-four  hours.  In  the  space 
of  two  revolutions  of  the  clock,  he,  from  the  lurking-place 
of  his  roadside  hotel  at  St  Briac,  had  contrived  to  get  him- 
self asked  to  the  house  to  tea.  I  wondered  what  he  would 
do  about  myself.  Would  he  blandly  bow,  as  if  our  ac- 
quaintance began  at  that  moment,  or  would  he  advance  with 
outstretched  hand,  own  up  to  it,  and  act  on  the  square?  If 
he  admitted  his  acquaintance  with  me,  what  questions  of 
Alec's  should  I  not  have  to  answer?  How  answer  them, 
how  explain  my  concealment?  How  accept  any  responsi- 
bility whatever  for  him?  Yet  how  avoid  complete  respon- 
sibility? Apparently  only  Jennie  and  the  maid  who  had 
announced  him  knew  of  his  furtive  visit  to  myself  the 
evening  before ;  but  Jennie  knew,  and  what  more  she  might 
learn  when  they  put  their  heads  together  I  could  not  guess. 
Perhaps  little  or  nothing.  Perhaps  all.  .  .  . 

My  thoughts  flew  to  Jennie  again  and  the  miracle  of  the 
past  twenty- four  hours  for  her.  The  first  awakening  look 
of  that  moment  by  the  cars,  the  lovely  and  irreparable  sur- 
render in  the  Dinard  Bazaar,  her  sobs  against  my  shoulder 
that  afternoon,  the  radiant  burst  in  which  she  had  realised 
that  he  too  loved  her — and  then  that  evening's  encounter 
whatever  it  had  been,  when  apparently  she  had  taken  mat- 
ters into  her  own  hands,  bowed  to  him,  and  spoken  her  first 
words  to  him  in  French,  to  be  answered  in  English.  .  .  . 
No  wonder  she  could  not  yet  realise  it.  The  day  before  had 
found  her  a  child,  moody,  wilful,  not  knowing  what  ailed 
her,  but  crying  to  Life  to  take  her,  use  her  and  not  spare 
her;  now  she  was  a  woman,  with  a  strange  sweet  turmoil 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  267 

in  her  bosom,  and  a  quite  matter-of-fact  resolution  in  the 
brain  beneath  that  red-gold  hair.  No  need  to  ask  whether 
she  slept!  Sleep,  with  that  ache  and  bliss  at  war  in  her 
breast?  She  must  be  awake  at  that  moment,  wondering 
whether  he  was  awake,  knowing  that  he  was  awake,  lying 
in  her  innocent  bed  with  her  face  turned  towards  St  Briac. 
His  miniature  was  painted  on  the  curtains  of  her  closed  but 
unsleeping  eyes,  the  echo  of  his  voice  was  in  her  ears  as 
she  had  spoken  to  him  in  French,  and  he  had  answered — in 
English. 

And  by  the  way,  -why  had  he  answered  her  in  English? 
Only  that  morning  he  had  cajoled  me  into  talking  French, 
at  any  rate  among  French  people.  Had  he  too,  stupefied 
with  bliss,  answered  her  instinctively  in  her  own  native 
tongue  and  his?  Or  had  he  deliberately  resolved  that  here 
at  any  rate  should  be  no  trick  or  stratagem  to  be  subse- 
quently explained,  but  a  perfectly  clean  beginning?  If  so, 
how  would  he  contrive  to  maintain  it?  How  could  he  be 
secure  that  the  contretemps  of  any  single  moment  of  the  day 
would  not  catch  him  out?  I  remembered  the  masterfulness 
and  skill  with  which  he  had  managed  me;  had  he  his  plans 
for  the  handling  of  the  Airds  also?  Were  they  to  be 
founded  on  the  appearance  of  complete  honesty,  with  only 
the  trifling  fact  suppressed  that  he  had  lived  a  whole  life 
before? 

If  that  was  the  idea,  I  could  only  catch  my  breath  at  the 
impudence  and  daring  and  pure  cheek  of  it.  Look  at  its 
comic  beauties!  Months  before,  Madge  had  begged  me  to 
bring  the  author  of  The  Hands  of  Esau  to  see  her;  well, 
here  was  that  author  coming — as  a  corduroyed  young  land- 
scape-painter about  whose  nationality  there  seemed  to  be 
some  ambiguity!  That  afternoon  at  the  Lyonnesse  Club 
she  had  admired  him  for  the  beauty  of  the  prime  of  his 
manhood;  and  as  a  stripling  youth  his  beauty  had  again 
engaged  her  eye!  Suppose  one  of  the  books  of  Derwent 
Rose  should  happen  to  be  mentioned;  would  he  say  "Ah 
yes,  I've  read  that,"  and  quote  a  page  of  it?  Suppose  she 
should  say  that  he  was  rather  like  a  man  she  had  met  in 


268  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Queen's  Gate  who  was  rather  like  Derwent  Rose ;  would  he 
say  "Naturally,  Mrs  Aird,  since  I  am  the  same  man"  ?  Or 
would  he  suppress  even  the  twinkle  of  his  eye  and  continue 
his  leg-pulling?  The  thing  began  to  teem  with  quite  fas- 
cinating possibilities,  and  in  a  couple  of  days,  in  his  French 
clothes  or  his  English  ones,  he  would  be  upon  us.  Within 
a  week  he  might  be  painting  Jennie's  portrait,  as  Julia  Oli- 
phant  was  supposed  to  be  painting  my  own. 

And  where  were  young  Rugby,  young  Charterhouse,  now 
that  he  had  appeared  on  the  scene  ? 

Suddenly,  on  the  little  balcony  at  Ker  Annie  that  night, 
with  the  Plough  over  the  sea  and  the  lamplight  from  the 
salon  below  yellowing  the  garden,  I  found  myself  one  tingle 
of  hope  that  he  might  pull  it  off. 


II 

You  will  appreciate  my  growing  excitement  when  I  tell 
you  of  a  resolve  I  took.  It  would  have  been  perfectly  simple 
for  me  to  take  the  first  tram  out  to  St  Briac,  to  see  him  at 
his  hotel,  to  tell  him  I  was  aware  of  the  turn  events  had 
been  made  to  take,  and  to  ask  him  to  be  good  enough  to  tell 
me  where  I  came  in  among  it  all.  But  I  found  myself  vow- 
ing that  I  would  be  hanged  first.  It  was  his  show,  and  for 
the  present  at  any  rate  he  should  run  it  without  any  inter- 
ference from  me.  If  when  he  came  to  tea  at  Ker  Annie  he 
chose  to  call  me  George,  well,  we  would  see  what  happened ; 
if  he  solemnly  stood  waiting  to  be  introduced  to  me,  that 
was  his  affair.  At  the  least  it  would  be  interesting.  It 
might  prove  enthralling. 

Therefore  I  did  not  seek  him  the  next  day,  but  crossed 
to  St  Malo  with  Alec  and  went  for  a  potter  about  the  quays 
of  St  Servan. 

I  learned  later  that  I  should  not  have  found  him  at  St 
Briac  even  had  I  sought  him  there.  He,  who  had  so  lately 
avoided  the  eyes  of  men,  now  coolly  came  forth  and  took 
his  place  in  the  world.  His  bicycle,  instead  of  taking  him 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  269 

and  his  painting-gear  to  Pleudihen  or  Ploubalay  or  the  war- 
ravaged  woods  of  Pontual,  brought  him  into  Dinard  early 
in  the  forenoon.  In  the  afternoon  it  brought  him  in  again. 
It  would  probably  have  brought  him  in  again  in  the  evening 
had  there  been  the  faintest  chance  of  a  glimpse  of  Jennie 
Aird.  It  was  on  the  afternoon  trip  that  Madge  met  him, 
and  when  we  returned  from  St  Servan  Alec  and  I  were  told 
that  Monsieur  Arnaud  was  asked  to  tea  the  next  day. 

"Are  you  deliberately  throwing  him  at  that  child's  head  ?" 
Alec  asked  crossly. 

"I'm  adding  him  to  my  collection  of  nice  people.  I 
should  be  so  much  obliged  if  you  happened  to  go  to  the 
Club,  dear.  Not  that  you're  in  the  least  like  a  wet  blanket, 
darling.  Only  the  thermometer  drops  just  the  least  little 
bit." 

"It'll  go  up  again  all  right  if  I  see  any  reason  for  it,"  Alec 
promised.  "You  know  nothing  about  the  fellow.  He  may 
be  all  right  for  all  I  know,  but  as  a  matter  of  principle " 

Et  cetera,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Alec  on  matters  of  prin- 
ciple takes  time  to  run  down.  At  the  end  he  turned  his 
head  to  find  that  Madge  had  left  the  room.  And  that  is 
enough  to  annoy  anybody. 

Something  that  I  overheard  on  my  way  to  my  room  the 
following  afternoon  caused  me  to  smile.  The  door  of 
Madge's  room  stood  ajar,  and  as  I  passed  it  Jennie's  implor- 
ing voice  came  from  within. 

"Oh,  mother,  not  that  old  thing!  Do  wear  the  putty 
colour!" 

"What !"  in  a  faint  shriek.    "My  very  newest  new  one !" 

"Please,  mother!" 

"But  I  was  keeping  that  specially  for " 

"Ple-e-ease!     And  the  little  darling  hat!" 

"But " 

"Please,  please!" 

I  passed  on.  Evidently  the  best  there  was  was  none  too 
good  for  Monsieur  Arnaud,  alias  Arnold,  alias  Derwent 
Rose. 

Tea  was  set  out  inside  the  pergola ;  Jennie  herself  placed 


270  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

little  leaves  round  the  sandwiches,  begonia  petals  about  the 
dishes  of  chocolate  and  nougat.  Critically  she  paraded  her 
mother's  putty-coloured  frock  for  inspection,  touched  the 
little  darling  hat  deftly.  She  herself  wore  her  pale  gold 
silk  jumper;  her  proud  throat  and  small  head  issued  from  it 
like  the  little  porcelain  busts  in  the  shop  in  the  Rue  Levavas- 
seur — the  Watteaus  and  Chardins  and  Fragonards  that  are 
made  up  into  pincushions  and  cosies.  She  was  a  tremulous 
tender  pout  of  anticipation  and  anxiety.  A  dozen  times  she 
moved  the  objects  on  the  table,  a  dozen  times  moved  them 
back  again.  Alec  had  dissociated  himself  from  all  this 
absurd  fuss  about  a  chance-met  English  youth  with  a  French 
name,  but  he  sat  not  far  away,  in  the  shade  of  the  auracaria. 
behind  the  Paris  Daily  Mail. 

Then,  at  four  o'clock,  there  was  the  short  soft  slide  of 
somebody  alighting  from  a  bicycle,  and  Derry  stood  by  the 
wrought-iron  gate,  looking  about  him. 

"This  way — come  straight  down !"  Madge  called.  "The 
bicycle  will  be  all  right  there." 

Rapidly  as  I  knew  Jennie's  heart  to  be  beating,  I  was 
hardly  less  excited  myself.  Now  what  was  he  going  to  do? 

What  he  did  was  the  simplest  thing  imaginable.  As  he 
advanced  among  the  montbretias  and  begonias  I  noticed 
that  he  wore  his  English  clothes.  He  took  Madge's  hand ; 
he  smiled  simply  at  Jennie;  and  then,  as  Madge  was  about 
to  present  him  to  myself,  he  smiled  and  shook  hands  with 
me  too. 

"That's  all  right — we  do  know  one  another,"  he  said. 
"Quite  a  long  time.  In  London,  eh,  sir?  And.  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  came  here  to  see  him  the  other  night,  but  you 
were  all  so  busy  with  the  party " 

Beautifully,  calmly  disarming  He  said  it,  too,  just  as 
Alec  came  up — for  Alec  may  growl  before  his  guests  come, 
and  growl  again  when  they  have  gone,  but  he  is  their  host 
as  long  as  they  are  there.  If  Monsieur  Arnaud  had  known 
Sir  George  Coverham  in  London  the  situation  was  more  or 
less  regularised.  The  growling  might  continue,  but  in  a 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  271 

diminuendo.  Growling  is  sometimes  a  man's  duty  to  his 
own  face. 

"Well,  let's  have  tea  anyway,"  Alec  said.  "Tell  them, 
Jennie." 

The  dark  blue  clothes — that  had  crossed  the  Channel  in 
a  motor-launch  while  their  owner,  thickly  greased,  had  swum 
alongside  in  the  night — fitted  him  quite  passably  well;  I 
remembered  the  very  suit.  His  boots  and  collar,  however, 
were  French,  and  apparently  he  had  no  English  hat,  for  his 
head  was  uncovered.  I  remember  a  foolish  fleeting  wonder 
that  the  light  chequer  of  shadow  should  pattern  his  clear  and 
self-possessed  face  exactly  as  it  did  our  own — and  he  the 
lusus  nature?  he  was !  He  stood  there,  modest  and  at  ease, 
waiting  for  his  seniors  to  seat  themselves.  I  saw  Alec's 
expert  glance  at  his  perfect  build.  I  mentally  gave  the 
subject  of  athletics  about  ten  minutes  in  which  to  crop  up. 

"Do  sit  down,"  said  Madge;  and  she  added  to  me, 
"George,  you  never  told  me  you  knew  Mr  Arnaud  in  Lon- 
don!" 

"I  think  this  is  the  first  time  we've  all  been  together,"  I 
parried. 

Derry  gave  me  a  demure  glance.  "Oh  yes.  And  I  staved 
a  week-end  in  Sir  George's  place  not  so  long  ago — had  a 
jolly  swim  in  his  pond — isn't  that  so,  sir?" 

He  should  at  any  rate  have  a  tweak  in  return.  "When 
there's  a  prep  school  in  the  neighbourhood  a  good  many 
young  people  use  a  man's  pond,"  I  observed;  and  at  that 
moment  Jennie  and  a  maid  arrived  with  tea. 

Already  I  fancied  I  had  what  is  called  a  "line"  on  him. 
The  only  word  I  can  apply  to  his  modest  impudence  is 
"neck" — charming,  bashful,  but  quite  deliberate  "neck." 
He  had  not  merely  met  me  before  in  London ;  oh  dear  no ; 
he  went  a  good  deal  beyond  that.  He  was  a  young  man  I 
had  to  stay  in  my  house,  allowed  to  swim  in  my  pond.  I 
saw  the  way  already  paved  for  as  many  visits  to  Ker  Annie 
as  he  pleased.  I  saw  in  anticipation  Alec  coming  round  to 
his  English  clothes,  his  grace  and  strength  of  build.  'Madge 


272  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

he  already  had  in  his  pocket.  He  even  admitted  having 
sought  me  at  this  very  house  a  night  or  two  before!  My 
position  was  as  neatly  turned  as  heart  could  wish.  I  could 
not  even  imitate  his  own  mendacious  candour  lest  I  should 
give  him  and  myself  completely  away.  Yes,  I  think  "neck" 
is  the  word. 

He  talked  quietly,  charmingly,  not  too  much.  Jennie 
hardly  ventured  to  look  at  him,  nor  he  at  her.  To  Madge 
he  was  the  most  perfect  of  squires.  Alec,  like  myself,  was 
"sir"  to  him. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "that's  quite  right.  I  did  do  a  bit  of 
a  sprint  at  Ambleteuse.  I'm  that  Arnaud.  But  I've  had  to 
knock  it  off.  You  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  me,  but  I've 
got  to  go  awfully  steady.  I  used  to  be  quite  fast,  but  that's 
some  time  ago.  And  of  course  I  shall  be  all  right  again  in 
a  little  time.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  I  took  up  painting. 
It  keeps  me  in  the  air  practically  all  the  time." 

"Chest?"  said  Alec. 

"Something  of  the  sort,  sir.  No  thank  you,  I  don't 
smoke." 

But  for  one  significant  trifle  I  think  Alec  might  have  been 
more  or  less  satisfied.  This  was  the  fact  that,  in  his  own 
hearing,  his  daughter  had  spoken  to  this  charming  stranger 
in  French,  and  had  been  answered  in  English.  It  might  mean 
little  or  nothing,  but  I  saw  that  it  stuck  in  his  mind.  In  his 
different  way  Alec  is  no  less  quick  than  his  wife.  Let  him 
down  once  and  you  are.  likely  to  have  to  take  the  conse- 
quences for  all  time.  A  trifle  ceases  to  be  a  trifle  when  it  is 
all  there  is.  Alec  knew  nothing  of  his  visitor,  but  he  did 
know  that  Jennie  never  addressed  the  blazered  tennis-play- 
ing English  youths  in  French.  He  also  knew  that  for  three 
days  Jennie,  who  up  to  then  had  soaked  herself  in  tennis, 
had  not  been  near  the  nets  at  all.  The  intensely  insular 
father  of  a  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen  is  not  blind  to  these 
things. 

"I  suppose  your  people  were  French  at  one  time?"  Alec 
said  presently,  not  too  pointedly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Derry,  for  all  I  knew  with  perfect  truth. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  273 

"My  mother  was  a  Treherne,  a  Somerset  woman.  I  believe 
she  and  my  father  ran  away.  I  don't  remember  him." 

"And  you  went  to  a  French  school  ?" 

"No,  sir.    Shrewsbury."    This,  too,  was  perfectly  true. 

"You've  got  an  uncommonly  good  French  accent,  that's 
all,"  remarked  Alec ;  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

After  all,  the  last  question  he  would  have  thought  of 
asking  his  young  guest  was  whether  he  might  have  a  look 
at  his  birth  certificate. 

Up  to  this  point  our  gathering  had  had  its  distinctly  amus- 
ing side.  With  consummate  dissembling  he  had  turned  us 
round  his  finger,  and  it  would  have  taken  a  conjurer  to 
guess  that  he  was  softly  laughing  at  all  of  us  except  Jennie. 
But  the  more  I  considered  the  "line"  I  had  on  his  subtle 
machinations  the  less  a  laughing  matter  it  all  became.  Be- 
hind the  gentle  deference  of  his  manner  I  felt  the  grimmest 
determination.  His  charm  was  the  charm  of  a  charming 
youth,  but  it  rested  on  the  hard  experience  and  resolution  of 
a  man.  And  behind  that  again  in  the  last  resort  menace 
would  lie.  This  man,  actually  older  than  Madge,  not  much 
younger  than  Alec  and  myself,  and  a  full  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury older  than  Jennie,  had  toiled  for  fame  and  had  missed 
the  fruits  of  it;  he  had  chased  the  will-o'-the-wisp  pleasure 
and  had  floundered  in  the  bog;  but  now  he  had  seen  the 
shining  thing  beside  which  fame  and  pleasure  are  nothing 
at  all.  To  seize  that  was  now  the  whole  intention  of  his 
marvellous  twice-lived  life.  Let  him  keep  his  eyes  as  he 
would  from  looking  directly  at  Jennie,  Jennie  was  there, 
the  prize  for  which  he  strove.  And  I  knew  in  my  soul  that 
were  I  or  another  to  try  to  frustrate  him  we  had  better  look 
to  ourselves.  It  was  a  thing  none  the  less  to  beware  of  that 
his  brow  was  smooth,  Tiis  eyes  bright,  his  skin  clear  as  the 
skin  of  a  boy. 

And  all  in  a  moment  I  found  myself  looking  at  him  with 
— I  don't  know  how  else  to  express  it — a  sort  of  induced 
unfamiliarity.  All  the  strangeness  of  it  came  over  me  again 
like  a  wave.  I  knew  that  I  didn't  know  him  in  the  least. 
Behind  that  mask  he  knew  infinitely  more  about  me  than  I 


274  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

knew  about  him.  He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  sea,  and  the 
tartan  of  tricky  shadow  laced  his  brow,  was  lost  again  as 
his  face  dipped,  reappeared  on  the  navy-blue  sleeve  and  his 
brown  hand  on  the  table.  Yes,  completely  a  stranger  to  me. 
I  his  father?  He  was  his  own  father.  What  else  did  all 
that  turgid  stuff  in  The  Times  about  "maximum  faculties" 
mean  ?  New  words  for  old  things !  "The  boy  is  father  of 
the  man."  They  of  old  time  knew  it  all  before  us.  We  only 
think  it  is  truer  to-day  because  more  people  talk  about  it. 
Here,  incipient  and  scarcely  veiled,  was  the  real  parent  of 
the  Derwent  Rose  of  The  Vicarage  of  Bray,  An  Ape  in  Hell, 
and  all  else  he  had  ever  done.  Here,  implicitly  and  in  em- 
bryo, were  the  wit  of  the  Vicarage,  the  patient  purpose  of 
Esau,  and  the  deadly  suppressed  anger  of  the  Ape.  Pos- 
sibly you  have  never  seen,  brightly  and  sunnily  displayed 
with  a  light  and  laughing  lazy-tongs  of  rippling  shadow,  the 
authentic  beginning  of  a  man  you  have  known  twenty-five 
years  farther  on  in  time.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  they 
who  have  seen  it  are  few.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it 
that  that  family  tree  of  which  the  roots  are  Arnaud  and  the 
blossoms  Rose  can  be  a  rather  terrifying  thing. 

Therefore  I  and  I  alone  was  able  to  pierce  through  his 
blandness,  and  to  see  the  tremendousness  of  the  effort  be- 
hind it  all ;  and  I  wondered  whether  that  was  his  idea  of  an 
easy  and  unexciting  life!  Whatever  it  was  to  him,  I  can 
only  say  that  I  did  not  find  it  so.  I  almost  sweated  to  see 
his  composure.  Yet  to  all  outward  appearance  he  never 
turned  a  hair.  His  keel  was  still  even,  the  rudder  of  his  will 
under  perfect  control.  Jennie  with  the  downcast  eyes  was  the 
mark  on  which  he  steered.  And  his  own  eyes  sought  the  rest 
of  us  in  turn  with  crafty  innocence  and  infernal  candour. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  he  was  saying  to  Alec.  "Oh" — 
he  gave  a  little  laugh  of  confusion — "in  a  place  like  this  it's 
sometimes  difficult  to  say!  Where  was  it,  Miss  Aird?" 
(But  he  gave  her  no  chance  to  reply.)  "One  hardly  knows 
how  one  meets  anybody  else ;  it  seems  to  be  in  the  air ;  you 
can  hardly  help  knowing  people.  But  these  holiday  ac- 
quaintances can  be  easily  dropped  afterwards." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  275 

("Steady,  Derry!"  I  found  myself  commenting.  "Don't 
overdo  it — that's  rather  experienced — don't  be  too  wise  for 
the  age  you  look.") 

"Anyway,"  he  went  on,  "I  shall  probably  be  the  last  one 
here.  I  like  the  place,  and  the  rate  of  exchange  is  all  to  the 
good  when  you  know  your  way  about — not  in  a  villa,"  he 
twinkled  modestly.  "They  say  Italy's  the  place,  but  I  can't 
quite  manage  that,  and  England  doesn't  suit  me,  so  I  shall 
just  stick  on  here  and  paint" 

"I've  only  seen  the  sketch  you  were  doing  the  other 
night,"  remarked  Madge — dangerously  invitingly,  I  thought. 

"Oh,  they  aren't  anything."  He  waved  them  aside.  "I 
hope  to  do  something  one  day.  But  it's  a  funny  thing,"  he 
explained,  "words  and  books  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  never 
interested  me  in  the  least.  I  couldn't  write  if  my  life  de- 
pended on  it;  can't  imagine  how  Mrs  Aird  and  Sir  George 
do  it.  But  everybody  understands  what  they  see  with  their 
eyes.  Paint's  the  stuff." 

"Then  when  are  you  going  to  show  us  ?"  said  Madge. 

"If  you'd  care  to,  of  course.  George — Sir  George  Cover- 
harn  knows  where  I  hang  out.  Perhaps  you'd  bring  Mrs 
Aird  round,  sir?  ...  Ah " 

The  last  little  exclamation  accompanied  as  wonderful  a 
feat  of  its  kind  as  I  ever  saw.  As  she  had  turned  to  him 
Madge's  elbow  had  caught  a  teaspoon,  which  slipped  over 
the  table's  edge.  But  it  never  reached  the  ground.  He  did 
not  even  shake  the  table.  The  position  of  his  shoulder  al- 
tered, his  hand  shot  out.  He  put  the  spoon  back  on  the  table. 
With  such  instantaneous  smoothness  had  he  done  it  that  it 
seemed  simple.  But  I  tell  you  I  caught  my  breath.  .  .  . 

"Near  thing,"  he  smiled.  "Oh,  come  any  time.  You 
won't  have  to  mind  a  few  stairs.  But  I'm  afraid  you'll  be 
disappointed.  I'm  only  a  beginner  really." 

And  so  not  one  door,  but  two  were  opened,  the  second 
one  at  his  lodging  at  St  Briac. 

But  Alec  as  well  as  I  had  seen  that  marvellous  piece  of 
fielding  with  the  teaspoon.  Suddenly  he  got  up,  stretched 
himself,  and  walked  away. 


276  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

The  moment  his  back  was  turned  Jennie  spoke  for  the 
first  time. 

"Perhaps  Mr  Arnaud  would  like  to  see  the  rest  of  the  gar- 
den, mother?" 

"Then  show  him,  child,"  said  Madge.  "We'll  be  with 
you  in  a  minute." 

Their  eyes  met.  He  rose.  They  went  off  together. 
Madge  swung  round  on  me. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  you  knew  him  before?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"The  question  never  arose." 

"The  question  always  arises  if  Alec's  anywhere  about. 
You  know  he's  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  about  young 
men." 

"It's  the  duty  of  a  father's  head  to  be  sore.  I  quite  agree 
with  Alec." 

"But  if  you'd  only  said  'He's  quite  all  right,  he  stays  with 
me  in  Haslemere ' 

"Quite  a  number  of  people  stay  with  me  in  Haslemere,  if 
that's  a  social  guarantee " 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  Alec's  simply  a  troglodyte. 
He  doesn't  belong  to  to-day.  It's  all  very  flattering,  of 
course,  but  he  simply  can't  forget  what  things  were  like 
when  I  was  a  girl.  They  never  dreamed  of  letting  us  travel 
without  a  maid ;  why,  we  actually  had  to  sit  still  in  the  car- 
riage till  the  footman  had  opened  our  own  front  door.  Alec 
doesn't  realise  that  the  world's  moved  on  since  then.  And 
you  could  have  put  it  all  on  a  proper  footing  with  three 
words !" 

"  'It  ?' " 

"Yes,  his  coming  here.  All  that  fuss !  I  think  he's  per- 
fectly delightful.  And  I  know  those  Somerset  Trehernes 
if  they're  the  Edward  Trehernes  of  Witton  Regis.  And  I 
expect  his  painting's  clever  too.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  all 
the  gifts.  .  .  .  Now  I  make  you  answerable  for  Alec, 
George.  That  he's  not  simply  stupid  and  unreasonable,  I 
mean.  I  don't  mean  that  he's  not  perfectly  right  to  ask  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  277 

usual  questions,  but  Jennie's  got  to  be  considered  too.  She's 
quite  old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind.  Now  I'm  going  to 
them.  Are  you  coming  ?" 

"I'll  come  along  in  a  few  minutes,"  I  replied. 

Ill 

My  intelligence  with  regard  to  painting  is  simply  that 
of  the  ordinary  man.  I  seldom  speculate  on  the  relation 
between  one  art  and  another.  True,  I  have  read  my 
Browning,  and  have  wondered  whether  he  really  knew  what 
he  was  talking  about  when  he  spoke  of  a  man  "finding  him- 
self" in  one  medium,  and  starting  again  all  unprejudiced 
and  anew  in  another.  It  sounds  rather  of  a  piece  with 
much  more  art  talk  we  heard  when  we  were  young. 
^  But  Derwent  Rose  was  only  fallaciously  young.  He  had 
time  at  his  disposal  in  a  sense  that  neither  Browning  nor 
you  nor  I  ever  had.  And  it  seemed  to  me  significant  of 
the  state  of  his  memory  that  he  should  have  turned  his  back 
on  words  and  taken  up  paint  instead.  For  the  burden  of 
his  age  was  lifted  from  him,  and  he  was  advancing  on  his 
youth  with  a  high  and  exhilarating  sense  of  adventure.  Now 
words  had  been  the  greatest  concern  of  his  "A,"  or  Age 
Memory,  and  words,  it  must  be  admitted,  have  arrogated  to 
themselves  the  lion's  share  of  this  strange  faculty  that  we 
call  remembering.  Had  he  now  found  a  means  of  expres- 
sion more  closely  in  correspondence  with  the  untrodden 
ground  ahead  ?  In  other  words,  was  he  a  kind  of  alembical 
meeting-ground  where  the  arts  interpenetrated  and  became 
transmuted?  ...  I  hazard  it  merely  as  a  conjecture  in  pass- 
ing, and  leave  you  to  judge.  Let  us  pass  to  that  visit  we 
paid  to  St  Briac  to  see  his  sketches. 

Alec  was  not  with  us.  The  Kings,  Queens  and  Knaves 
of  the  bridge-table  were  pictures  enough  for  him.  So  I 
accompanied  Madge  and  Jennie.  Jennie's  bosom  lifted  as 
we  approached  the  wide  spaces  of  the  links — but  then  the 


278  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

St  Briac  air  is  admittedly  fresher  than  the  tepid  medium 
that  is  canalised,  so  to  speak,  in  the  streets  and  lanes  of 
Dinard.  It  was  afternoon,  and  the  shed  at  the  terminus 
was  a  bustle  of  moving  luggage,  friends  meeting  friends, 
parties  going  into  Dinard  to  return  by  the  seven  o'clock  tram. 
We  crossed  the  road  to  his  glass-fronted  hotel.  There  was 
no  need  to  ask  for  him.  Evidently  he  had  been  watching 
from  his  window.  He  stood  at  the  gate,  once  more  in 
blouse  and  corduroys. 

"Tea  first,  I  think,  and  the  works  of  art  afterwards," 
he  greeted  us  cheerfully.  "Where's  Mr  Aird?  Oh,  what 
a  pity !  This  way — straight  through  the  kitchen — I  thought 
it  would  be  nicer  outside " 

He  led  the  way  through  the  black  and  cavernous  kitchen 
towards  the  sunny  green  doorway  and  the  back  garden. 

Tea  was  set  under  an  apple  tree.  The  garden  was  some 
fifteen  yards  square,  but  only  close  under  the  tree  was  there 
room  for  the  table  and  the  four  chairs.  Even  then  we  had 
to  be  careful  how  we  moved,  lest  we  should  crush  a  grow- 
ing plant.  There  were  no  paths — you  could  hardly  call 
those  single-file,  six-inches-wide  threads  paths.  Unless  you 
put  one  foot  fairly  in  line  with  the  other  pop  went  a  radish, 
a  strawberry,  a  flower.  Not  one  single  hand's-breadth  any- 
where was  uncultivated.  Behind  Madge  as  she  sat  a  row  of 
scarlet  runners  made  a  bright  straggle  of  coral,  and  dwar-f 
beans  filled  the  interstices.  Over  the  runners  tall  nodding 
onion-heads  showed,  and  behind  them  again  bushes  heavy 
with  white  currant.  Along  a  knee-high  latticed  fence  huge 
red-coated  apples  were  espaliered,  and  the  ochre  flowers  of 
a  marrow  sprawled  over  a  manure-heap.  Bees  droned  and 
butterflies  flitted  in  the  sun,  glints  of  glass  cloches  pierced 
the  screens  of  warm  grey-green.  And,  where  a  tree  of  yel- 
low genet  covered  half  the  wall,  a  large  green  and  red  parrot 
in  a  cage  had  suddenly  become  silent  on  hearing  voices. 

"That's  Coco,"  Derry  said.  "Coco!  Ck!— 'Quand  je 
bois  mon  vin  clairet ' ''' 

The  parrot  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  regarded  us 
with  an  upside-down  eye. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  279 

"Chants,  Coco! — 'Quand  je  hois' — You'll  hear  him  all 
right  in  a  minute,  Mrs  Aird.  .  .  .  Ma  me-r-r-r-e!  Nous 
void  a  table!" 

"Tout  est  pret — on  va  servir !"  came  the  shrill  reassurance 
from  somewhere  inside  the  house ;  and  an  immensely  fat  old 
patronne  in  a  blue  check  apron  brought  out  tea,  followed  by 
one  of  the  reserved  young  Amazons  with  strawberries,  cream, 
and  little  crocks  of  jam  with  wasps  struggling  on  the  top. 

As  for  Jennie  and  myself,  I  think  she  had  completely  for- 
gotten that  I  had  ever  tried  to  keep  her  and  Derry  apart. 
I  was  now  the  person  through  whose  good  offices  she  sat, 
with  at  least  semi-parental  approval,  here  in  his  garden.  I 
do  not  want  to  pretend  to  more  knowledge  than  I  have  about 
these  secretive  young  goddesses,  but,  as  she  sat  there,  her 
eyes  still  bashfully  avoiding  Berry's,  I  was  prepared  to  take 
a  reasonable  bet  that  I  guessed  what  was  passing  through 
her  mind.  Derry  had  stayed  in  my  house  in  England.  Her 
too  I  had  asked  to  visit  me  there.  What  an  Uncle  George 
indeed  I  should  be  if  at  some  time  or  other  I  were  to  ask 
them  together!  Only  as  thanks  in  advance,  after  which  I 
could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  withhold  the  benefit,  could 
I  explain  the  soft  and  grateful  looks  I  received  from  time 
to  time.  I  had  one  of  these  glances  quite  unmistakably  be- 
fore I  had  as  much  as  touched  the  cup  of  tea  Madge  poured 
out  for  me.  "You  see,  mother's  all  right,"  it  said  as  plainly 
as  if  she  had  uttered  the  words ;  "you'll  make  it  all  right 
with  father,  won't  you  ?  I  know  you  can  if  you  will !  And 
thank  you  so  much,  dear  Uncle  George,  for  the  perfectly 
lovely  time  we're  going  to  have  when  we  come  to  see  you !" 
At  any  rate,  that  was  my  interpretation  of  it,  while  Derry, 
no  less  charming  as  a  host  than  he  had  been  as  a  guest,  made 
himself  honey-sweet  to  Madge  and  politely  attentive  to  her 
daughter. 

Nevertheless,  I  presently  asked  a  direct  question  about 
the  hours  of  departure  of  the  trams.  I  saw  the  faintest 
flicker  of  demure  fun  cross  his  face;  and  I  too  remem- 
bered, too  late,  how  I  had  once  countered  him  about  the 
Sunday  trains  from  Haslemere. 


280  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"There's  a  four-thirty-five  and  a  five- forty-eight,"  he 
said.  "It's  four-twenty  now.  We  can  cut  out  the  pictures, 
of  course,  but  it  seems  a  pity  not  to  have  tea." 

So  we  had  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half. 

I  don't  really  think  that  he  had  the  least  desire  to  show 
us  his  pictures.  The  pictures  had  served  their  turn  hand- 
somely enough  already.  He  wanted  to  remain  under  the 
apple  tree,  with  Madge  and  myself  there  since  we  must  be 
there,  but  anyway  with  Jennie  opposite  to  him,  eating  his 
strawberries  and  jam,  occasionally  not  knowing  which  way 
to  look,  the  possession  on  which  his  twofold  heart  was  set, 
the  lovely  and  precious  godsend  he  had  missed  once  but 
would  see  us  all  with  our  throats  cut  rather  than  not  clasp 
her  to  his  bosom  in  the  end. 

So  we  sat  there  over  our  empty  cups,  with  the  wasps 
struggling  in  the  jam  and  Coco  harping  on  the  wires  of  his 
cage,  but  still  obstinately  refusing  to  sing  "Quand  je  bois." 
Jennie  got  up  to  give  him  a  piece  of  sugar,  and  he  cocked 
his  yellow  upside-down  eye  at  her  and  showed  the  ribbed 
black  tongue  inside  his  hook  of  a  beak.  Were  I  a  painter  I 
should  paint  the  picture  she  made  against  the  shrill  yellow 
of  the  broom,  with  the  sun  full  on  her  white  summer  frock, 
her  gleaming  hair,  and  the  sun-loving  bird  with  his  head  on 
one  side  watching  her.  "Mind  his  beak,"  Derry  called; 
and  she  smiled  over  her  shoulder,  as  if  his  mere  voice  were 
so  much  that  she  must  turn  her  eyes  whatever  it  said.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  table,  but  not  before  she  had  plucked 
a  sprig  of  genet  and  put  it  in  her  breast.  It  lay  at  the  pit 
of  her  stately  throat  like  a  dropped  blossom  at  the  plinth 
of  a  column. 

"But  what  about  the  pictures?"  Madge  suddenly  said. 
"We  came  here  to  see  pictures,  didn't  we  ?" 

"Then  that  means  a  trail  upstairs,"  said  Derry,  springing 
up.  "Carefully  through  the  kitchen,  Mrs  Aird;  it's  al- 
ways as  dark  as  the  pit  after  you've  been  sitting  out  here. 
Perhaps  I'd  better  go  first." 

He  led  the  way  through  the  kitchen,  up  the  bare  polished 
stairs,  and  into  his  room. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  281 

He  cannot  have  had  any  great  wish  to  show  them ;  other- 
wise they  would  have  been  set  out,  or  at  least  ready  to  hand. 
As  it  was  he  had  to  rummage  for  them  in  his  single  cup- 
board, selecting  some,  rejecting  others.  He  showed  a  dozen 
or  more  of  them,  mostly  canvas  on  the  stretchers,  but  a  few 
watercolours  among  them;  and  I  fancy,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  that  Madge  was  just  a  shade  disappointed.  I  think 
she  had  hoped  for  jazz  and  lightning  and  something  to  go 
with  her  drawing-room  cushions.  Nor  did  I  myself  quite 
know  what  to  make  of  those  pictures.  The  first  impression 
of  them  I  had  was  a  kind  of — let  me  say  datelessness ;  I 
can't  think  of  a  better  word.  All  were  landscapes,  the 
largest  of  them  not  more  than  a  couple  of  feet  by  eighteen 
inches ;  and  at  first  he  set  them  up  one  after  another  rather 
negligently.  But  as  Madge  began  to  question  him  his  man- 
ner rather  curiously  changed.  That  preternatural  skill  that 
he  had  shown  for  two  whole  afternoons  seemed  to  drop 
from  him.  He  seemed  to  halt  a  little,  to  take  risks,  to  ad- 
vance warily  into  deeper  water.  If  Mrs  Aird  really  wished 
to  know,  then  he  was  sincerely  ready  to  explain.  And  he 
began  to  take  me,  for  one,  through  the  unsuspected  intrica- 
cies of  what  at  a  first  glance  appeared  to  be  a  few  casual 
brush-marks  on  the  flat. 

"I  dare  say  I'm  all  wrong — I  feel  rather  an  ass  talking 
about  it,"  he  said  diffidently,  "but  I'll  try  to  tell  you.  I 
mean  I  came  across  a  fellow  one  day  just  outside  Pleudihen, 
and  he  was  painting  what  he  called  a  Romantic  Landscape. 
I  asked  him  what  a  Romantic  Landscape  was,  and  he  was 
just  a  bit  stuffy  about  it.  'This  that  I'm  painting/  he  said. 
'But  why  can't  you  paint  just  a  landscape?  I  said.  'Be- 
cause I'm  doing  a  Romantic  one  and  I  can't  do  two  things 
at  once,'  he  said.  'What  are  you  doing  it  for?'  I  asked  him. 
'The  Salon,'  he  said.  'No,  but  I  mean  why  are  you  doing 
it?'  I  said.  'I  suppose  because  I  belong  to  the  Romantic 
School,'  says  he.  ...  Well,  there  you  are,  Mrs  Aird. 
What  I  mean  is  that  he  was  painting  it  because  he  belonged 
to  a  school  that  did  paint  that  sort  of  thing.  If  he'd  be- 
longed to  another  school  he'd  have  painted  something  dif- 


282  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

ferent,  I  suppose.     So  of  course  that  set  me  thinking  a  bit." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Madge,  quite  out  of  her  depth. 

"So  I  said  to  him,  'What  do  you  want  to  belong  to  a  school 
at  all  for?'  'Everybody  does,'  says  he.  'I  should  have 
thought  that  was  all  the  more  reason  why  you  shouldn't,' 
says  I.  'Oh,  if  you're  a  blooming  genius !'  he  said  ...  a 
bit  rotten  of  him,  I  thought,  but  he  was  years  older  than  I. 
So  I  rather  let  myself  go,  I'm  afraid.  I  picked  up  the  near- 
est leaf.  'Look  here/  I  said  to  him,  'this  thing's  a  leaf,  just 
a  leaf.  It's  a  certain  colour  and  a  certain  shape  and  certain 
other  things;  the  point  is  it's  itself  and  nothing  else;  and 
neither  you  nor  I  can  alter  it,  sir'  (I  told  you  he  was  years 
older  than  I).  'The  light  hits  it  there,  and  only  one  pos- 
sible thing  can  happen ;  it  hits  it  there,  where  the  direction 
alters,  and  only  another  thing  can  happen.  In  another  min- 
ute the  light  will  have  changed,  and  a  quite  different  set  of 
things  will  have  happened.  Everything  there  is  happens  to 
that  leaf  in  the  course  of  a  day,  and  if  you  know  all  about 
that  feaf  you  know  all  about  everything.  And  if  you  can 
paint  it  you  can  paint  all  the  leaves  in  the  world.'  I  hope 
I  didn't  seem  too  rude,  but  that's  what  I  said  to  him." 

I  had  moved  to  the  window.  He  was  talking  with  a  mix- 
ture of  diffidence  and  warmth,  on  a  subject  I  had  never 
heard  him  on  before,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
heard  something  strangely  like  it  all  before. 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  Madge  asked. 

"Oh,  he  said  something,  but  he  was  years  older  than  I,  so 
I  just  said  good  afternoon.  I  suppose  he  went  back  to 
school,"  said  Derwent  Rose. 

Once  more  I  was  disturbed.  Was  this  a  new  phase,  or  an 
old  one  all  over  again?  If  he  was  going  to  abolish  schools 
and  precedents  and  all  the  accepted  apparatus  by  which  the 
world's  thought  is  carried  on,  it  seemed  to  me  to  matter 
very  little  whether  he  dealt  in  words,  as  before,  or  in  paint, 
as  now.  True,  this  parallelism  might  exist  largely  in  my 
own  imagination;  he  had  said  nothing  that  another  man 
might  not  have  said  without  arousing  anxiety ;  but  again  he 
was  trying  to  see  something,  though  only  a  leaf,  as  if  it  had 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  283 

never  been  seen  before,  and  I  noted  it  carefully  as  I  looked 
out  over  the  sunny  northward  water. 

"So  that's  more  or  less  what  I'm  after,"  he  was  saying. 
"I  know  they're  pretty  bad,  but  I  think  they  start  right. 
That  sky's  as  clumsy  as  it  can  be,  but  it  is  horizontal.  That 
tree's  got  a  back  you  don't  see  as  well  as  a  front  you  do. 
So  I  simply  don't  go  to  look  at  other  people's  stuff.  .  .  .  Ah, 
this  branch  will  explain  what  I  mean." 

It  did  when  he  pointed  it  out,  but  I  should  never  have 
seen  for  myself.  As  completely  as  a  worshipping  pagan 
he  sought  to  subdue  himself  to  one  given  thing  in  one  given 
moment.  As  I  say,  I  know  nothing  about  painting.  That 
may  be  a  valid  theory  of  painting  landscape  or  it  may  not. 
But  it  was  his,  there  was  no  ear-say  or  eye-say  about  it,  and 
it  is  of  him  and  not  of  his  pictures  that  I  am  speaking. 

"I  believe  I  shall  pull  it  off  one  day;  in  fact  I  know  I 
shall.  .  .  .  And  now  that's  quite  enough  about  me.  That's 
my  view,  Mrs  Aird,  and  this  is  where  I  live.  My  old  land- 
lady's a  perfect  dear,  and  Madeleine  and  Hortense  are 
all  right.  But  sometimes  that  brute  Coco  simply  won't 
sing " 

I  saw  Jennie  drinking  in  every  detail  of  his  room.  There 
was  not  to  be  one  inch  of  it  that  she  could  not  reproduce 
when  she  went  to  bed  that  night  and  turned  her  face  in  the 
direction  of  St  Briac.  Her  eyes  took  in  his  moulded  ceil- 
ing-beams, the  glass  knob  of  his  door,  his  neat  bed,  the 
herring-boned  parquet  of  the  floor.  It  was  a  little  bare, 
perhaps,  but  then  he  spent  all  his  days  out  of  doors,  painting 
those  wonderful  paintings,  and,  of  course,  this  was  not  his 
real  home.  She  hated  that  older  painter — a  hundred  at 
least — who  had  been  rude  to  him  about  the  Romantic  Land- 
scapes ;  instantly  and  passionately  she  had  taken  sides  with 
her  hero.  She  loved  the  fat  old  Frenchwoman  who  looked 
after  him  and  was  nearly  seventy;  she  did  not  so  much 
love  the  two  Breton  women  who  looked  after  him  and  were 
not  nearly  seventy.  Coco  was  a  naughty  bird  not  to  sing 
"Quand  je  bois"  when  he  was  told,  and  if  his  window  did 
not  face  towards  Dinard,  at  any  rate  he  had  the  tram  op- 


284  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

posite,  and  could  watch  it  every  time  it  started,  and  know 
that  it  was  going  almost  past  the  gates  of  Ker  Annie.  She 
stood  with  puckered  brows  before  his  canvases.  She  loved 
trees.  They  would  always  be  different  to  her  now  that  he 
had  shown  her  about  them.  She  had  no  doubt  whatever 
about  his  theory  of  landscape;  how  could  it  be  wrong  if  it 
was  his?  Her  fingers  touched  the  blossom  of  broom  at  her 
throat  that  had  grown  on  his  tree. 

Then  she  came  over  to  the  window  to  make  sure  that 
Dinard  really  did  not  lie  that  way.  Most  stupidly  it  did 
not.  Actually  it  lay  miles  away  past  the  glass  door-knob, 
and  the  Garde  Guerin  to  the  right  was  invisible  from  Dinard. 
But  she  pressed  my  arm  lightly.  "September,  Uncle 
George?"  the  pleading  pressure  silently  said.  "You'll  ask 
us  both  down  in  September,  the  moment  we  get  back  from 
here?" 

I  looked  at  my  watch. 

Then  I  heard  Madge's  voice  across  the  room,  and  my 
heart  almost  stopped  at  the  swift  peril. 

"Then  your  mother  was  Cicely  Treherne,  and  she  mar- 
ried an  Arnaud  ?" 

But  he  weathered  it.  He  did  it  with  his  rascally  eyes. 
He  smiled  down  on  her. 

"Well  ...  I  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  swear  it  in  a  court 
of  law,  because  it  was  before  I  was  born,  you  see." 

The  smile  conquered.  She  laughed.  I  cut  quickly  in, 
my  watch  half  out  of  my  pocket.  Gunpowder  was  safer 
than  family  history  with  Madge  Aird  about. 

"Time?"  I  said. 

"Ought  we  to  be  going  ?" 

"The  tram  has  a  way  of  filling  up." 

"Then  don't  let's  miss  it,"  said  Madge,  drawing  on  her 
gloves.  "Thank  you  for  a  most  delightful  afternoon,  Mr 
Arnaud  (all  my  friends  are  'Mr'  for  at  least  a  week,  you 
know).  I  think  the  pictures  are  fascinating;  they  make 
our  books  look  very  dull.  Good-bye." 

"Oh,  I'm  coming  to  see  you  off,"  he  said. 

Something  in  his  last  words,  I  really  can't  tell  you  what, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  285 

made  me  take  a  swift  resolve.  If  he  was  going  to  see  us 
off,  I  was  going  to  see  him  off  also.  I  had  a  superstitious 
idea  that  it  might  be  necessary.  He  had  bamboozled  Alec 
about  his  delicate  chest,  had  only  just  evaded  that  question 
of  Madge's  that  simply  meant,  if  you  like  to  do  a  little  sum 
about  it,  that  his  mother  had  borne  him  at  two  different 
dates  with  a  quarter  of  a  century  between  them.  Blandly 
as  he  might  cover  it  up,  I  now  expected  nothing  but  tricks 
from  him — tricks  coolly  and  resolutely  planned  and  carried 
out  without  a  moment's  compunction  or  hesitation.  Very 
well.  He  was  going  to  be  watched  if  I  had  eyes  in  my 
head. 

And  so  was  Miss  Jennie.  With  a  guile  so  innocent  and 
transparent  that  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  the  tenderest  and 
most  smiling  love,  she  too  was  quite  capable  of  duplicity. 
More  than  once  her  tell-tale  hand  had  fluttered  about  the 
flower  at  the  pit  of  her  throat.  As  I  have  said,  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  deep  knowledge  of  the  hearts  of  these  superb  and 
recently-awakened  young  creatures,  but  I  do  know  when 
things  are  in  the  wind. 

Nothing  happened  as  we  passed  down  the  stairs  and  out 
into  the  street.  I  could  have  taken  my  oath  of  that.  And, 
devoted  as  always,  he  walked  with  Madge  across  to  the 
terminus,  leaving  Jennie  to  me.  But  I  felt  it  coming.  .  .  . 

It  came  as  he  took  the  tickets  at  the  guichet ;  and  it  was 
not  of  his  doing,  but  of  hers.  I  had  silver  in  my  hand,  ready 
to  repay  him,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  she  also  should 
have  pressed  so  close  to  him.  Again  there  was  the  little 
flurry  about  the  flower  at  her  throat;  her  bent  nape  was 
towards  me ;  the  thing  was  movingly  clumsily  done. 

But  it  was  done  for  all  that.  A  note  passed  from  her 
hand  to  his,  and  the  fingers  that  passed  it  were  held  for  a 
moment. 

Don't  tell  me  that  that  note  had  not  been  in  readiness 
probably  since  the  evening  before.  Don't  tell  me  that  it 
had  not  lain  under  her  pillow  for  a  whole  night  before  being 
transferred  to  that  tenderer  post-bag  that  was  sealed  with 
the  yellow  flower.  Don't  tell  me  that  it  had  not  been  even 


286  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

more  sweetly  sealed.  For  I  saw  her  face  when  she  turned 
again.  I  saw  its  struggle  of  soft  emotion  and  the  will  to  be 
calm.  With  a  quick  little  impulse  that  I  did  not  understand 
she  flew  to  her  mother's  arm. 

"There  are  three  seats  there  if  we're  quick,"  she  said  in  a 
broken  little  voice.  .  .  . 

Only  to  see  one  another — only  to  speak  to  one  another — 
and  to  pass  a  secret  note  at  the  first  opportunity 


IV 

"You  know  that  we  can't  quarrel,  Derry,"  I  said. 

"In  that  case "  he  said  quietly,  but  did  not  finish. 

"We  can't  quarrel  for  the  reason  there's  always  been — 
that  we  aren't  in  the  same  ring  and  can't  possibly  get  there." 

"I  wish "  he  began,  but  once  more  suddenly  stopped. 

From  the  obscurity  of  the  next  table  where  the  four 
young  Frenchmen  sat  another  soft  unaccompanied  song 
broke  out. 

"Listen,"  whispered  Derry. 

"En  mon  coeur,  tendre  reliquaire, 

J'avais  garde  ton  souvenir ; 
Par  lui  le  long  de  mon  calvaire 

En  esperant,  j'ai  pu  souffrir!" 

"Hush !"  his  voice  came  huskily  from  the  dusk  by  my 
side. 

"J'ai  vecu  des  heures  cruelles 

Loin  de  toi,  que  j'aimais  tou jours; 

Les  revoici,  pour  moi  plus  belles 
Puisqu'elles  sonnent  ton  retour." 

The  song  was  finished  without  further  interruption  from 
him. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  287 

"Ne  parlons  plus  de  nos  alarmes, 

Effaqons  1'horrible  passe; 
Reviens,  je  veux  secher  tes  larmes 

Et  revivre  pour  t'adorer: 

"Rien  n'est  fini,  tout  recommence, 

Puisque  nous  voila  reunis 
Au  chaud  soleil  de  1'esperance — 

A  tout  jamais,  soyons  unis!" 


It  was  nine  o'clock  of  the  same  evening,  and  we  were 
sitting  outside  the  hotel  of  St  Briac's  tiny  triangular  Square. 
I  had  broken  away  from  dinner  at  Ker  Annie  in  order  that 
I  might  see  him  without  a  moment's  loss  of  time.  What  did 
it  matter  that  I  had  had  to  hire  a  special  car,  and  that  that 
car  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  darkness  of  a  side-street  now  ? 
As  it  had  happened,  I  had  met  him  on  the  road.  Had  I 
not  done  so  I  should  have  scoured  the  neighbourhood  until 
I  had  found  him. 

Our  backs  were  to  the  lighted  windows  of  the  hotel,  but 
he  had  blotted  himself  into  the  shadow  by  the  door.  The 
Square  might  have  been  a  set-piece  on  a  stage.  Yellow 
strips  of  light  streamed  from  open  doorways,  illuminated 
window-squares  showed  the  movement  of  dark  heads  within. 
Children  playing  their  last  ten  minutes  before  going  to  bed 
flitted  like  moths  in  and  out  of  the  beams,  and  the  comers 
and  goers  across  the  square  seemed  actors  in  spite  of  them- 
selves. The  four  young  Frenchmen  sat  in  the  shadows  be- 
yond the  lighted  doorway,  and  they  had  sung  three  or  four 
songs  before  singing  that  one. 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  Derwent  Rose  and  my- 
self. Then  suddenly  he  got  up  and  crossed  to  the  group  of 
Frenchmen.  In  a  minute  or  so  he  came  back  again,  and 
thrust  himself  more  deeply  still  into  the  shadow. 

Then  I  felt  rather  than  heard  his  soft  shaky  mutter. 

"Le  long  de  mon  calvaire  .  .  .  mon  calvaire,  mon  Dieu! 
.  .  .  effagons  1'horrible  passe  .  .  .  rien  n'est  fini,  tout  re- 
commence .  .  .  tout  recommence.  .  .  ." 


288  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

That  wretched,  wretched  song!  It  had  suddenly  made  it 
impossible  for  me  to  go  on. 

"I  suppose  you  went  over  to  ask  the  name  of  it?"  I  said 
sullenly;  I  almost  said  "The  name  of  the  beastly  thing." 

"It's  called  'II  est  venu  le  Jour." 

"Coincidences  are  stupid  things." 

"I  dare  say." 

And  another  long  silence  fell  between  us. 

Nevertheless  I  had  not  taken  a  special  journey  to  St  Briac 
merely  to  listen  to  his  disturbed  breathing.  What  I  hnd 
seen  that  afternoon  had  taken  matters  far  beyond  that.  If 
he,  in  his  situation,  thought  he  could  do  thus  and  thus,  I 
was  there  to  see,  to  the  limit  of  my  power,  that  he  did  not. 
I  had  already  told  him  so,  in  those  words.  He  had  made  a 
stiff  reply.  Then  had  come  that  calamitous  song,  and  our 
present  silence. 

"Well  .  .  .  you  can't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it,  Derry," 
I  said,  quietly  but  flatly. 

"So  I  understood  you  to  say." 

"It's  what  I  came  specially  to  tell  you." 

"I  gathered  that  too.  By  the  way,  if  you  want  to  send 
your  car  away  there's  a  Casino  bus  going  in  at  ten  o'clock. 
No  need  to  waste  money." 

"We  may  not  have  finished  our  talk  by  then." 

"Then  we  can  finish  it  in  the  bus.  I'd  thought  of  going 
in  myself." 

"To  hang  about  that  house  ?" 

"You  and  the  gendarmerie  can  stop  that  easily  enough." 

We  were  back  at  the  same  point — that  we,  between  whom 
a  quarrel  was  impossible,  must  apparently  nevertheless  quar- 
rel. 

"Look  here,"  I  said  at  last,  "can't  you  see  my  position?" 

"I  can.     It's  a  rotten  one." 

"If  I  saw  the  faintest  glimmer  of  hope " 

"Esperance,"  he  muttered. 

" even  from  their  point  of  view.  Aird  isn't  a  fool. 

He  heard  Jennie  speak  in  French  to  you,  evidently  the  very 
first  time  she  had  spoken  to  you — regular  monkeys'-parade 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  289 

business  from  his  point  of  view — and  he  draws  his  own  con- 
clusions. And  Mrs  Aird  isn't  a  fool  either.  She  won't  be 
in  London  two  days  before  she's  found  out  all  about  your 
mother." 

"I  see  all  that." 

"Your  mother  didn't  marry  an  Arnaud." 

"Quite  right.     She'll  know  that  too." 

"And  Aird's  athlete  enough  to  know  you're  no  more 
poitrinaire  than  he  is." 

"I  once  saw  him  score  a  ripping  try  on  the  Rectory 
Ground.  I  was  about  twenty." 

"You  haven't  a  paper  to  your  name." 

"Not  one." 

"You  can't  even  get  back  to  England." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that." 

"And  you're  no  better  off  if  you  do." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen  too." 

"Then  Mrs  Aird's  a  writer  herself.  She  knows  every 
word  Derwent  Rose  ever  wrote." 

"Oh,  I  had  a  reader  here  and  there,"  he  replied  non- 
chalantly. 

"And  she  wants  to  meet  you — not  Arnaud,  but  Derwent 
Rose.  I'm  to  take  you  round  there." 

I  felt  his  smile.  "That  would  be  the  deuce  of  a  hole 
for  you  to  be  in,  George.  You'd  simply  have  to  say  you 
couldn't  find  me." 

"But  Derwent  Rose  is  supposed  to  be  alive  somewhere. 
Nobody's  heard  of  his  death." 

"One  man  extra,  one  man  missing,  so  it's  as-you-were. 
Anyway  nobody'll  worry  much  about  that.  I  never  had  a 
tenth  of  your  readers." 

"And  you're  bound  to  be  caught  out  here  sooner  or  later 
on  the  question  of  domicile." 

"Not  if  I  see  them  first,"  he  replied  grimly. 

"Derry,  you're  my  despair." 

"Oh,  don't  despair,  George.  Never  despair.  It  will  be 
all  right.  What  about  sending  that  car  away?  No  good 
wasting  good  francs.  You  see,  we've  finished  our  talk." 


290  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"We  haven't  begun  it  yet." 

"Then  for  goodness  sake  let's  begin  and  get  it  over." 

"Very  well.  Get  ready.  ...  I  stood  by  you  at  the  tram- 
way office  this  afternoon.  I  saw  what  was  given  you  there. 
I  know  what  you  have  tucked  away  somewhere  about  you  at 
this  moment." 

He  had  asked  for  it,  and  had  got  it.  Hitherto  I  had 
stuck  to  generalities;  that  this  was  particular  enough  I 
knew  by  his  quick  movement.  His  foot  knocked  against 
the  flimsy  table,  and  a  coffee-cup  all  but  fell.  He  spoke  in 
a  low  but  harsh  voice. 

"That's  not  on  the  agenda,  Coverham." 

"Pardon  me." 

"It's  not,  and  it's  not  going  to  be." 

"If  you  prefer  it  in  French,  it's  a  fait  accompli." 

"You  mean  you'll  bring  matters  to  a  head  by  telling  them 
over  there?"  He  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Ker 
Annie. 

"That  rests  with  you,  here  and  now." 

He  muttered.  At  first  I  could  not  distinguish  the  words. 
Then  I  heard,  "No,  not  here  .  .  .  now  if  you  like  .  .  .  it's 
got  to  come,  I  suppose.  .  .  ." 

He  rose.     "Very  well,"  he  said.     "I'm  ready." 

"Wait  a  moment  till  I've  paid  for  the  coffee." 

"Oh,  I'll  wait  all  right." 

I  entered  the  hotel  and  paid.  When  I  came  out  again  I 
looked  right  and  left  for  him ;  then  I  saw  his  black  smock 
and  corduroys  by  a  lighted  door  half-way  across  the  Square. 
I  joined  him,  and  together  we  took  the  dark  street  to  the 
right  that  leads  to  where  the  Calvary  stretches  out  its  arms 
across  the  harbour  to  Lancieux. 

Past  the  Post  Office,  past  the  Mairie  we  walked  without 
speaking — that  Mairie  that  either  as  an  Englishman  or  a 
Frenchman  knew  him  not.  We  ascended  the  short  lane  to 
the  promontory.  It  was  a  whispering  half-tide,  but  all  was 
darkness  save  for  a  low  remnant  in  the  west,  a  twinkle  or 
two  over  the  shallows,  and  once  more  Frehel,  this  time  di- 
rectly visible  and  giving  us  distinct  shadows.  The  last  gos- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  291 

sip  had  disappeared  from  the  point.  I  don't  think  even  a 
couple  of  lovers  lingered  on  the  steep  below.  It  was  him 
and  myself  for  it,  with  the  Calvary  above  us  and  that 
twelve-miles-distant  Giant  as  timekeeper  of  our  encounter. 

But  he  did  an  unexpected  thing  before  he  spoke.  Under 
Frehel's  sweeping  ringer  the  Calvary  started  forth  for  a  mo- 
ment from  the  shadows.  He  advanced  to  it,  dipped  his 
knee,  and  crossed  himself. 

Then  he  turned  to  me. 

"Well "  he  said  quietly. 

I  waited.     It  was  he  who  began. 

"Don't  think  I  don't  see  the  force  of  everything  you've 
said.  Every  word  of  it's  true,  and  a  child  could  see  it. 
For  one  hole  you  can  pick  in  the  position  I  can  pick  five 
hundred.  But  picking  holes  doesn't  help.  What  you  aren't 
allowing  for  is  the  force  of  circumstances." 

"It's  the  force  of  circumstances  I've  been  trying  to  point 
out,"  I  said,  as  quietly  as  he  had  spoken. 

"I'm  speaking  of  the  circumstances  7  find  myself  in,  the 
pressure  that  drives  me  to  do  what  I  am  doing.  You  don't 
think  I'm  deceiving  these  decent  people  as  a  matter  of  choice, 
do  you?" 

"You  say  what  you've  got  to  say.  I'll  tell  you  what  I. 
think  by  and  by." 

"I've  no  choice.  I'm  driven  to  it,  can't  escape  it ;  it's  my 
handicap.  I  want  you  to  look  at  it  for  a  moment  from  my 
end.  What's  the  very  first  thing  I've  got  to  do?  To  lie 
about  my  name.  I  must  lie,  knowing  perfectly  well  that  a 
day,  a  week  or  a  month  or  two  at  the  outside  will  see  me 
caught  out  and  shown  the  door.  Never  mind  other  instances ; 
let's  stick  to  that  one ;  the  rest  are  just  the  same,  only  a 
good  deal  worse,  some  of  'em.  Now  here's  the  point.  Do 
you  suppose  I  should  put  my  head  into  a  noose  like  that 
unless  I  was  perfectly  sure  that  I'd  finished  sliding,  was 
well  dug  in,  and  had  a  fairly  reasonable  prospect  of  present- 
ly going  straight  ahead  like  anybody  else  ?" 

But  I  had  no  intention  of  going  over  that  ground  again. 
My  foolish  excited  hope  that  he  might  "pull  it  off"  had  been 


292  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

scattered  to  the  winds  by  the  events  of  that  afternoon.  As 
far  as  he  himself  was  concerned  I  wished  him  all  the  best 
that  could  happen  to  him,  but  it  was  not  a  chance  that  the 
happiness  and  safety  of  the  daughter  of  my  friends  could 
be  risked  upon.  Let  him  start  to  go  forward  first;  let  us 
have  some  assurance  that  the  ghastly  business  was  all  over ; 
then  would  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  the  rest. 

"We've  had  all  that,"  I  interrupted  him. 

"We  haven't,  George,"  he  said  earnestly.  "You  don't 
know.  You  can't  possibly  know.  You've  no  idea  of  the 
care — the  tests " 

"If  it  comes  off  all  right  nobody  will  rejoice  more  than  I 
shall,  Derry.  What's  between  us  at  the  moment  is  what 
happened  this  afternoon." 

Instantly  I  was  conscious  of  his  hardening.  But  he  did 
not  become  granite  all  at  once. 

"That  can't  be  dragged  in." 

"'Dragged  in!'" 

"Can't  you  accept  the  situation,  George?" 

"No."   " 

"Not  if  I  solemnly  assure  you  that  I  have  a  good  chance  ?" 

"When  it's  a  proved  certainty  we'll  talk  about  it." 

"Not  if  I  tell  you  my  mind's  perfectly  made  up?" 

"That's  the  point." 

"Not  if  it  meant  a  breach  between  you  and  me?" 

"It  looks  as  if  I  had  to  have  a  breach  with  somebody." 

"Your  friends.  I  know.  I've  admitted  all  that.  It's 
beastly.  But  I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  allowed  to  make  any 
difference." 

"Suppose  I  denounce  you?" 

"I'm  sure  you'll  act  perfectly  conscientiously  whatever 
you  do." 

"That  would  mean  your  complete  exposure." 

"I'm  prepared  for  that." 

"You  said  the  other  night  that  you  only  wanted  to  see 
and  talk  to  her.  You  said  you'd  go  no  further  than  that. 
Do  you  call  what  happened  this  afternoon  keeping  your 
word?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  293 

"I  meant  what  I  said  at  the  time.  You  know  that  I  hon- 
estly hadn't  a  thought  of  deceiving  you.  I'm  afraid  that 
word  can't  be  kept.  Perhaps  I  hadn't  quite  realised." 

"Have  you  realised  yet?" 

"Oh!" 

"You  haven't.  Let  me  help  you.  And  I'll  put  it  as 
much  in  your  favour  as  I  can.  I'll  assume  you're  standing 
still  for  the  present.  I'll  even  assume  the  other  possibility, 
or  impossibility,  whichever  it  is — that  you  might  actually 
turn  round  again.  Even  then  what  would  it  mean?  It 
would  mean  that  I,  a  guest  of  my  old  friends,  was  lending 
my  countenance  to  something  against  every  conception  of 
mental — decency  let  us  say.  I  think  I  know  your  dates  and 
figures  pretty  well  by  this  time.  You  were  born  in  '75. 
Now,  in  1920,  we'll  say  you're  eighteen.  It's  taken  you 
forty-five  years  to  live  to  eighteen,  and  if  you're  to  live  to 
forty-five  again  it  will  have  taken  you — how  long? — seven- 
ty-two years.  It  will  then  be  getting  on  for  1950.  Jennie 
was  born  in  1903.  You're  now  forty-five  to  her  seventeen. 
If  this  thing  comes  off  you'll  be  in  the  early  forties  together. 
But  at  the  same  time  you'll  be  over  seventy.  Look  at  it, 
Derry — look  at  it." 

"Look  at  it?  I  have  looked  at  it.  I'll  look  at  it  again 
if  you  like.  .  .  .  Now  I've  looked  at  it  again.  Only  you 
and  I  know  it.  And  anyway  there's  nothing  in  it." 

"Julia  Oliphant  knows  it." 

"Then  only  you  and  I  and  Julia  Oliphant  know  it,  and 
there's  nothing  in  it." 

"Then  tell  me  if  there's  anything  in  this.  What  guar- 
antee have  you  that  exactly  the  same  thing  won't  happen  to 
you  again  ?  Take  the  maddest  view  of  all — that  you  actu- 
ally might  go  forward.  If  indications  are  anything  you're 
repeating  your  experiences  already." 

"How  so?"  he  demanded. 

"In  this  painting  of  yours.  I  heard  your  explanations  to 
Mrs  Aird  this  afternoon.  You're  starting  with  exactly  the 
same  ideas  as  before — complete  dissociation  from  every- 
thing else  that's  ever  been  done.  You're  going  to  be  the 


294  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

First  Man  again  instead  of  the  Millionth  Man.  How  do 
you  know  it  won't  land  you  in  the  same  mess?  It  used  to 
be  words;  now  it's  paint,  and  that's  all  the  difference  I 
see." 

There  was  a  long  pause ;  then  I  heard  his  soft,  almost  in- 
dulgent laugh. 

"Look  here,  George,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'll  make  you  a 
fair  offer.  Can't  you  and  I  come  to  terms  if  I  swear  to  you 
that  I'll  never  touch  another  canvas  or  brush  or  pen  or  sheet 
of  paper  as  long  as  I  live?  Will  that  satisfy  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"But  doesn't  that  meet  your  objection,  old  fellow?" 

"No.  Because  you'd  be  the  same  man  whether  you  wrote 
or  painted  or  not !" 

"But  how  on  earth  can  I  alter  that?" 

I  seized  on  his  words.  "Exactly.  That's  my  whole 
meaning.  You  can't  alter  it.  Whether  you  do  the  same  or 
not,  you  are  the  same.  For  all  I  know  you'll  go  on  being 
it  till  the  crack  of  doom.  It's  yourself  that's  been  visited, 
not  your  books.  And  that's  why  things  can't  go  on  be- 
tween you  and  Jennie  Aird." 

"Then  you're  going  to  stand  between  us  as  long  as  I 
am  I?" 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it." 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  as  a  little — hard,  George  ?"  he  asked 
slowly. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted  doggedly.  "But  you'll  be  bearing  it, 
not  she." 

By  the  swinging  beam  of  Frehel  I  saw  that  his  head  was 
bowed.  Without  my  noticing  it  the  riding-lights  in  the  lit- 
tle harbour  below  had  disappeared;  as  no  boat  could  now 
put  in  till  dawn  the  pecheurs  had  waded  across  the  shallows 
and  extinguished  them.  The  tall  Crucifix  seemed  to  ad- 
vance and  to  retire  again  into  the  gloom  with  the  next  revo- 
lution of  the  Light. 

Then  he  raised  his  head  and  asked  about  the  last  question 
I  expected. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  295 

"About  my  money,  George.  You  don't  know  exactly  how 
much  I've  got?" 

"No,  not  at  this  moment." 

"Who  bought  the  stuff?" 

"I  sold  it  in  the  best  market  I  could  find." 

Ironically  came  his  reply.  "Hasn't  it  got  a  name?  Are 
there  two  of  us?  ...  Anyway,  without  worrying  you  too 
much  about  it,  I'd  like  an  account  soon.  I  want  that  matter 
cleared  up." 

"Well,  never  mind  furniture  at  present.     That's  a  detail." 

"Oh  no  it  isn't!"  he  answered  quickly.  "We  seem  to 
have  different  ideas  as  to  what's  detail.  You've  given  me 
quite  a  lot  of  what  I  call  detail.  This  is  important. — You 
really  don't  remember  the  name  of  the  man  who  bought  that 
furniture  of  mine  ?"  he  mocked  me. 

"I've  already  told  you  you  can  draw  to  any  reasonable 
amount." 

"I  see.  ...  Is  this  it,  that  my  furniture  isn't  sold  at  all, 
and  you're  advancing  me  money  on  the  security  of  it?" 

"Security,  Deny!" 

"And  I  still  have  my  furniture  and  I  owe  you  five  hun- 
dred francs?" 

"Must  we  talk  about  this  now  ?" 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  granite  this  time. 

"Yes,  we'd  better,"  he  said  curtly.  "We've  wasted  time 
enough  about  things  that  don't  matter  that" — he  snapped 
his  fingers.  "I've  listened  to  what  you've  got  to  say,  and 
now  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  listen  to  me.  I  owe  you  five 
hundred  francs,  for  which  I'm  most  sincerely  obliged.  But 
I  don't  think  I  should  have  asked  you  if  I'd  known.  And 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  it's  all  I  do  owe  you." 

"Derry,  old  fellow " 

"Tut-tut !  One  tale's  always  good  till  you  hear  the  other 
side.  It  doesn't  seem  to  strike  you  that  you've  made  pretty 
free  with  me.  I'm  a  subject  for  sums  and  mental  arithmetic 
exercises — you're  better  at  that  than  at  accounts.  I'm  some 
kind  of  an  oddity,  that's  got  to  be  shoo-ed  with  an  apron  this 


296  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

way  and  that,  and  told  where  he's  to  go  and  not  to  go,  and 
who  he  shall  speak  to  and  who  he  shan't.  You'd  be  best 
pleased  of  all  if  you  could  shut  your  eyes  and  tell  yourself 
that  I  didn't  exist.  But  I  do  exist,  and  I'm  not  on  sale  for 
five  hundred  francs.  I'm  here  on  earth,  and  I  don't  see 
what  you're  going  to  do  about  it.  I'm  not  less  alive  than 
anybody  else;  I'm  more  alive — a  hundred  times  more  alive. 
You  can  call  me  any  age  you  please — but  who'd  be  locked 
up,  you  or  I,  if  you  showed  me  to  any  reasonable  being  and 
told  them  I  was  forty-five?  Care  to  try  it  on  the  Airds? 
I'll  give  you  the  chance  if  you  like." 

Bitterly  as  he  spoke,  he  grew  bitterer  as  he  proceeded. 
"This  is  not  the  first  time  you've  interfered.  You've  made 
free  with  my  latchkey  before  this.  Julia  Oliphant  knows 
about  me ;  who  told  her,  and  who  gave  you  permission  ?  It 
seems  to  me  I've  been  pretty  patient.  I'm  not  saying  you've 
not  been  decent  about  some  things,  that  time  when  I  was 
slipping  about  all  over  the  scale,  but  I'm  warning  you  now. 
I've  listened  to  all  you  had  to  say.  I've  met  you  at  every 
point.  I've  even  offered — I'm  hanged  if  I  know  why — not 
to  write  or  paint  again  if  that  will  please  you.  But  beyond 
that- 
Then  came  an  outburst  the  contempt  of  which  I  cannot 
reproduce. 

"Writing!  Painting!  Books!  Pictures!  As  if  they 
had  any  more  to  do  with  life  than  a  baby  playing  with  its 
doll !  They're  to  help  fools  to  think  they're  thinking.  They're 
to  make  'em  believe  that  but  for  some  slight  accident  they 
could  do  the  same  themselves — as  they  could,  and  do !  They 
call  a  thing  like  that  a  'gift' ;  but  what's  the  Gift  that  Life  still 
has  to  give  when  they've  said  their  very  last  word — they  and 
their  schools?  What's  been  there  all  the  time,  waiting  for 
us  to  get  the  dust  out  of  our  eyes  ?  .  .  .  George  Coverham, 
try  to  come  between  me  and  that  and  as  sure  as  God  will 
bring  to-morrow  morning  I'll  put  a  stop  to  your  arithmetic 
for  ever!  What  do  I  care  if  I  have  to  take  a  new  name 
every  day  ?  What  do  I  care  if  your  friends  the  Airds  bun- 
dle you  out  of  the  house?  Do  you  think  it  matters  to  me 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  297 

whose  father  and  mother  and  family  history  and  papers  I 
steal?  That's  all  life  seems  to  mean  to  some  of  you. 
'Where  did  he  come  from?  Who  knows  him?  Is  he 
French  or  English?  What  does  he  do  for  his  living?  Has 
he  paid  his  Income  Tax  ?  Is  he  respectable  ?  What  did  he 
do  in  the  war?  Where  does  he  bank?  What's  his  club? 
Where  does  he  live  and  how  much  is  his  rateable  value?' 
You  can't  see  a  man  for  all  that!  You  can't  even  see  me 
now  for  Derwent  Rose  and  his  tombstones  of  books!  By 
Jove,  I  said  I  was  a  ghost  once !  But  that  was  when  I  was 
on  the  slide !  I'm  no  ghost  now !  It's  you  others  who  are 
the  ghosts!  It's  you  who'd  better  get  off  the  map!  J'y 
suis,  j'y  reste;  I'm  here — here!" 

And  again  Frehel  showed  him  there — young,  beautiful, 
indomitable  and  ruthless. 

Yet  what  did  he  utter  but  his  own  deeper  and  deeper  con- 
demnation? Simple,  heart- full,  innocent  Jennie  Aird  be 
mated  with  his  piercing  and  impossible  view  of  the  world! 
She  herself,  yes,  even  in  her  body's  beauty,  to  be  what  his 
books  had  formerly  been,  what  his  painting  was  to  be  again 
— the  very  medium  of  his  transcendental  transgression! 
Why,  one  peep  at  that  awful  sleeping  dynamo  of  his  mind 
would  be  enough  to  drive  her  mad,  one  glimpse  of  the  ex- 
perience that  had  been  his  suffice  to  shrivel  her  opening  heart 
for  ever !  Did  he  think  to  put  off  his  flames  and  clouds  and 
lightnings  every  time  he  whispered  a  love-word  into  her  ear  ? 
What  fate  would  be  hers,  poor  Semele,  did  he  forget,  as  he 
had  forgotten  before  now,  and  put  forth  the  enormousness 
of  his  power  by  her  side?  With  every  word  he  spoke  it 
was  less  and  less  to  be  thought  of.  As  far  as  my  own 
carcass  was  concerned  he  might  do  what  he  pleased.  I 
would  not  stand  by  and  see  it  done.  His  vision  and  will 
might  exceed  mine  a  thousandfold,  but  even  in  my  humble 
heart  glimmered  the  small  flame  of  what  I  considered  to  be 
my  duty.  I  faced  him,  waiting  for  the  Light  again. 

"Very  well,"  I  said  as  it  came  over  his  face.  "Am  I  to 
take  that  as  your  last  word  ?" 

"If  you  please." 


298  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Then  hear  mine.  I  have  a  car  waiting  just  off  the 
Square.  You  may  knock  me  on  the  head,  as  you've  al- 
ready threatened.  At  least  I  shall  have  no  further  respon- 
sibility for  you  then.  But  unless  you  do  that  I'm  going  to 
get  straight  into  that  car,  drive  to  Ker  Annie,  and  tell  the 
Airds  the  whole  thing  before  I  go  to  bed.  You'll  then  have 
the  satisfaction  that  it's  a  straight  fight  in  the  open,  and 
that  you  aren't  creeping  like  a  blight  into  a  happy  house 
under  a  name  that  isn't  even  your  own." 

He  spoke  very,  very  slowly.     "You  mean  that,  George?" 

"Enough.  I'm  going  to  stand  here  without  moving  till 
the  next  time  that  Light  shows  your  face.  Then  I  shall  do 
what  I've  said." 

And  I  stood,  still  as  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  Crucifix, 
giving  him  his  chance. 


The  darkness  seemed  an  omnipresent  thing,  positive 
rather  than  an  absence,  that  invaded  and  became  part  of  me, 
of  him,  of  the  place,  of  the  hour.  Not  a  star  was  to  be 
seen,  not  one  speck  in  the  immensity  of  the  night.  I  did 
not  even  look  where  I  knew  his  black-bloused  figure  to  be ; 
his  hand  might  have  been  uplifted  for  all  I  knew.  Or  for 
all  I  cared.  Once  more  I  was  weary  to  death  of  him  and 
his  domination.  There  was  not  room  for  both  of  us.  He 
might  have  the  field  henceforward  to  himself.  I  had  done 
what  I  could. 

It  was  an  eleven-seconds  interval.  The  Light  came.  Still 
I  did  not  look  at  him.  The  Light  passed  away  again. 

Four  seconds,  and  once  more  the  Light. 

Eleven  seconds,  the  Light,  four  seconds,  the  Light.  .  .  . 

Then  only  did  I  look  up. 

I  had  not  heard  him  move,  but  he  had  done  so.  He  had 
sunk  to  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  Calvary,  the  rocks  worn 
smooth  with  the  sitting  of  generations  of  evening  gossips. 
I  heard  a  faint  choke. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  299 

Then  his  voice  came. 

"Isn't  it — isn't  it  a  little  rough  on  a  fellow,  sir  ?" 

In  a  moment  I  was  on  my  knees  by  his  side.  "Derry! 
Derry !  Derry !"  I  repeated  over  and  over  again.  It  was  all 
the  speech  I  could  find. 

"Isn't  it  rough  on  a  fellow,  sir?    Isn't  it?     Isn't  it?" 

"Derry  my  boy,  my  boy !" 

"I  feel  you're  right  in  a  way,  sir — you're  bound  to  be 
wiser  than  I  am — but  when  I  heard  them  singing  that  song 
this  evening  .  .  .  le  long  de  mon  calvaire  ...  en  esperant 
j'ai  pu  souffrir  .  .  .  rien  n'est  fini,  tout  recommence  ...  it 
seemed  so  like  it  all,  sir — you  don't  know — you've  no 
idea " 

I  rocked  him  gently  in  my  arms. 

"You  don't  know — you  can't  possibly  know — nobody 
knows  who  hasn't  been  through  it.  Mon  calvaire — mon 
Dieu !  And  to  have  it  hurt  you  like  that  just  because  you  are 
able  to  hope!  Not  the  end  after  all,  but  the  beginning  of 
everything!  Oh,  can't  you  see  it,  sir — not  even  a  little  bit 
of  it?" 

"Yes,  talk,  my  boy — get  it  over " 

"I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute.  It  simply  got  me  by 
the  throat.  That  song,  I  mean.  I  suppose  it's  just  an  ordi- 
nary song  really — the  French  are  like  that — but  it  got  me 
by  the  throat,  it  was  so  like  me.  So  like  the  way  things 
have  been  with  me.  What  did  they  say  it  was  called  ?  I've 
forgotten." 

"  'II  est  venu  le  Jour.' " 

"Yes,  that's  it.  The  day's  come.  After  all  that.  It 
came  that  night — I'm  not  making  a  joke,  sir — that  night  in 
the  garden.  It's  been  day  ever  since.  Night's  been  day,  like 
a  soft  sun  shining  all  night.  And  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  lift 
a  finger  to  help  me  if  I  didn't  know  it  was  quite  all  right. 
I  do  know.  It's  she  who's  made  everything  all  right.  That's 
the  funny  thing  about  her — that  she's  made  everything  per- 
fectly all  right  again.  I  wonder  why  that  is  ?" 

"Don't  wonder.    Just  stay  quiet  a  while." 

"But  a  fellow  can't  help  wondering  a  bit.     Why  should 


300  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

it  have  made  everything  all  right  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on 
her?  But  she  did.  I  told  you  about  something  happening 
before,  sir,  something  I  can't  quite  remember  about.  That 
seemed  like  some  sort  of  an  emptying — leaving  me  all  empty 
and  aching,  if  you  understand.  But  this  filled  it  all  up 
again,  with  happiness  and  I  don't  know  what — lovely  things 
— all  since  that  night.  That's  what  makes  me  so  sure.  I 
wouldn't  say  it  if  it  wasn't  true.  It  isn't  the  kind  of  thing 
one  cares  to  be  untruthful  about,  is  it  ?  You're  in  the  same 
house  with  her — you  see  her — you  know  what  I  mean " 

Between  this  simplicity  and  his  late  menace,  what  could 
I  say  for  his  comfort,  what  do  for  my  own?  I  was  torn 
in  two.  I  was  a  weary,  elderly  man,  careworn  and  disillu- 
sioned; but  he,  through  unimaginable  tribulation,  had  mys- 
teriously found  this  place  of  stillness  and  peace  and  hope. 
What  his  intimidation  had  not  done,  that  his  utter  reliance 
and  trust  now  began  to  do.  He  sat  up  on  the  rocks  and  be- 
gan to  talk. 

"You  know  something  about  my  life,  sir.  Miss  Oliphant 
knows  most,  of  course,  but  you  know  quite  a  lot.  If  it 
doesn't  sound  most  awfully  conceited,  I  was  rather  a  nice 
sort  of  fellow  at  eighteen.  All  the  same  I  always  felt  there 
was  something  not  quite  right.  I  don't  mean  anything  I 
did ;  I  mean  there  always  seemed  to  be  a  sheet  of  thick  glass 
between  me  and  the  things  I  wanted  to  get  close  to.  I 
could  see  through  it  all  right,  all  the  brightness  and  the  col- 
ours, but  somehow  I  couldn't  get  any  nearer.  There  wasn't 
any  feel  of  warmth  somehow.  It  may  sound  silly  to  you, 
but  I  used  to  press  up  against  that  glass  like  a  kid  at  a  shop 
window  full  of  things  he  wanted.  It  wasn't  that  I  wasn't 
fond  of  things  and  people  and  so  on.  I  was  frightfully  fond 
of  them.  But  I  couldn't  manage  to  let  them  know  it.  Even 
my  mother.  When  she  wasn't  there  I  was  tremendously 
fond  of  her,  but  when  she  came — I  don't  know — of  course  I 
was  fond  then — I  suppose  it  was  my  imagination.  But  when 
she  wasn't  there  she  meant  an  enormous  lot  to  me,  and  when 
she  came  she  was  just  a  nice  little  mother  I  was  very  fond 
of  but  never  managed  to  let  her  know — just  as  if  I  was 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  301 

ashamed.  And  it  was  so  with  everything  else.  I  used  to 
get  excited  over  Shakespeare  and  Juliet  and  Hamlet  and 
Falstaff  and  all  those  people,  but  they  made  other  people 
seem  rather  shadowy.  Then,  when  I  was  about  twenty-one, 
it  worried  me  fearfully  sometimes.  Other  people  didn't 
seem  to  be  like  that.  I  wanted  to  be  like  other  people. 
They  hadn't  blocks  of  glass  in  front  of  them  all  the  time. 
Somehow  they  seemed  so  nice  and  happy  and  warm  all  the 
time.  I  had  a  dog  I  was  really  fonder  of  than  I  was  of 
anybody.  And  I  wanted  to  be  fond.  I'm  afraid  this 
sounds  absolute  rot,  sir,  but  I  can't  explain  it  any  better." 

"I'm  very  much  interested.     Go  on." 

"Well,  that's  lasted  more  or  less  all  through  my  life.  I'd 
get  all  in  a  glow  about  things — just  things,  and  of  course 
people  too  in  a  way :  somebody's  hair  under  a  stained-glass 
window  in  a  church,  or  the  organ  or  the  Psalms.  But  al- 
ways something  in  between,  I  don't  know  what.  It  worried 
me  because  I  knew  I  was  all  glow  inside  if  I  could  only  get 
it  out.  I  was  awfully  fond  of  Miss  Oliphant,  for  instance, 
but  I  simply  couldn't  let  her  know  it.  I  used  to  go  and  see 
her  sometimes  and  sit  there  wondering  about  it.  'Now 
here's  a  jolly  sort  of  girl,'  I  used  to  think,  'as  good  as  they 
make  'em — good-looking,  sometimes  nearly  beautiful — and 
awfully  fond  of  you.  Now  why  can't  you  get  on  with  her? 
Why  is  there  always  something  you  don't  say,  don't  really 
want  to  say  perhaps,  but  it  would  make  such  a  difference  if 
you  could  say  it?'  I  used  to  ask  myself  that,  but  there  was 
never  any  answer.  There  never  has  been.  There  it  always 
was,  that  sheet  of  glass,  as  polished  as  you  please,  but  shut- 
ting me  right  out  from  everything  everybody  else  seemed  to 
have." 

"But  your  books,  Derry?  You  weren't  shut  out  from 
everybody  there !" 

"Perhaps  that  was  where  it  went.  You  can  give  things 
to  other  people  in  a  book  you  can't  when  you're  sitting  next 
to  them.  That's  why  I  don't  care  if  I  never  do  anything  of 
that  sort  again.  I  want  to  get  near.  .  .  .  And  now" — his 
voice  fell  to  a  happy  hush — "it's  all  right.  That  was  what 


302  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

she  did,  all  in  a  moment,  all  in  one  look.  That  glass  went. 
That's  why  I  know  that  as  long  as  she's  near  to  me  no  harm 
will  happen  to  me.  Oh,  I  know  it." 

Then,  without  the  slightest  warning,  he  broke  into  a  heart- 
rending appeal.  It  was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  remembered 
that  I  was  not  yet  won  over. 

"Tout  recommence!  Mon  calvaire,  mon  calvaire!  .  .  . 
Have  I  to  lose  it  the  moment  I  see  it  ?  Must  I  go  back  the 
same  way  ?  Can't  I  go  the  other  ?  Haven't  I  carried  my  poor 
little  bit  of  a  cross  too,  sir  ?  Haven't  I  ?  Haven't  I  ?  J'ai 
vecu  des  heures  cruelles.  .  .  .  And  hasn't  it  sometimes  been 
so  heavy  that  I've  prayed  it  would  crush  me  and  get  it  over  ? 
And  even  when  I've  done  the  rottenest  things  haven't  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  do  something  better — always  ?  Thank  God 
for  the  glass  those  times  anyway!  Sometimes  I've  stood  off 
and  looked  at  myself  and  said:  'Poor  devil,  it  isn't  you  really 
— if  you  must  do  this  get  it  over  as  quick  as  you  can  and 
start  afresh !'  I've  always  started  afresh.  I  never  give  up 
hope.  .  .  .  And  do  I  get  nothing  at  all  at  the  end  of  it,  sir? 
Are  you  going  to  scrape  up  all  those  bits  of  glass  she  broke, 
and  put  them  together  again,  and  send  me  back  the  same 
way?  Not  even  a  chance,  now  that  everything  really  is 
beginning  again?  Now  that  the  day's  come?  Now  that 
for  a  week  every  night's  been  like  a  soft  warm  sun  shining? 
Are  you  going  to  turn  me  back  ?" 

Oh,  had  he  but  knocked  me  on  the  head  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago  it  would  have  been  easier!  Then  had  I  been  at 
rest,  with  those  who  had  built  desolate  palaces  for  them- 
selves before  me.  Or  could  I  but  have  believed  what  he  so 
firmly  believed !  Yet  must  I  not  almost  believe  it  ?  Had  he 
not  now  almost  compelled  me  ?  What  I  had  feared  to  find 
that  morning  at  St  Briac,  the  morning  after  the  first  meeting 
of  their  eyes  over  the  car,  had  not  happened,  but  something 
no  less  profound  had.  That  hard  clear  obstruction  that  had 
stood  immutably  between  him  and  life  all  his  days  had  been 
taken  away.  I  remembered  my  speculation  as  to  whether 
there  were  not  two  loves,  Jennie's  and  Julia's,  a  sacred  and  a 
profane.  Two  ?  How  if  he  were  right,  and  there  were  not 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  303 

two  loves,  but  one  love  only,  which  is  simply — Love  ?  What 
then  became  of  all  my  arithmetic,  my  rectitude,  my  conven- 
tions, even  my  duty  to  my  friends?  What,  by  comparison 
with  that  love,  that  law-annihilating  love  that  breaks  the  in- 
visible adamant  fetters  that  bind  the  old  Adam  and  bids  the 
new  man  stand  forth,  were  any  or  all  of  these  things  ?  They 
were  no  more  than  those  social  rates  and  taxes,  registrations, 
commitments,  undertakings,  contracts,  all  the  rest  of  the 
paper  business  of  our  lease  of  life  on  which  he  had  lately 
poured  his  scorn.  The  infinitude  of  passion  and  suffering 
of  a  single  human  soul  seemed  to  me  to  dwarf  them  all. 
And  if  a  man  must  sin,  let  him  sin  at  the  fringe  and  circum- 
ference of  things,  not  at  their  centre. 

Could  he  give  me  any  assurance  whatever  of  these  things 
he  ached  no  more  to  enter  his  heaven  than  I  ached  to  thrust 
him  in. 

Every  four  seconds,  every  eleven  seconds,  Frehel  opened 
the  furnace  of  his  white  and  blazing  eye.  Tremulously  in 
and  out  of  the  gloom  the  Calvary  seemed  to  advance  and  to 
recede  again.  Dimly  I  distinguished  Derry's  face — young, 
faithful,  agonised,  interceding  for  his  lovelier  self.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  fearful  responsibility  a  man  past  his  prime  assumes 
when  he  bids  such  a  creature  to  hope  no  more,  but  to  veil 
his  face  and  to  return  to  the  pit  whence  he  was  digged.  .  .  . 

And  how  had  he  offended  me?  He  had  merely  received 
a  note — had  not  even  given  it,  but  had  simply  accepted  it 
and  held  for  a  moment  the  fingers  that  had  passed  it.  ... 

Had  I,  in  my  own  insignificant  youth,  never  done  such  a 
thing  ? 

"Deny,"  I  said  gently,  "I  can't  go  over  old  ground  again. 
At  present — I  say  at  present — I'm  staying  in  the  house.  I 
must  now  decide  how  much  longer  I  can  stay  there.  But 
first  tell  me  exactly  what  it  is  you  propose  to  do." 

"I  haven't  any  intentions  at  all,  sir." 

"At  present  you  haven't.  You  hadn't  before,  but  that 
didn't  last.  What  is  it  you  want?" 

"Only  that  you  shouldn't  thrust  me  back  into — that  other." 

"And  then?" 


304  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"I  can't  think  beyond  that,  sir." 

"But  there  will  be  something  beyond  that." 

He  was  silent  while  the  Light  revolved  twice,  thrice, 
then: 

"Et  revivre  pour  t'adorer  .  .  .  like  a  soft  warm  sun  even 
in  the  night,"  he  breathed  scarcely  audibly.  ''You  can't  call 
it  sleeping.  Something  blessed  that  you  can't  see  is  going  on 
behind  it  all  the  time.  Something  seems  to  be  breathing. 
That's  what  happens  in  the  night  now.  It  isn't  sleeping; 
you're  too  happy  to  want  to  go  to  sleep.  Then  she  smiles. 
Not  like  in  the  toyshop.  She  didn't  smile  in  the  toyshop ;  that 
was  a  different  kind  of  look  altogether.  She  smiled  yester- 
day when  we  were  having  tea,  but  you  weren't  looking.  And 
twice  to-day — twice.  ...  At  first  I  was  afraid  my  painting 
was  going  to  excite  me  a  bit,  upset  me.  Once  or  twice  it 
did  a  little.  I  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it  much  this  after- 
noon for  fear  of  it  upsetting  me.  But  everything  calms 
down  when  she  looks  and  smiles.  It's  just  her  being  there. 
There  isn't  any  glass  at  all ;  the  glass  is  between  us  two  and 
everybody  else  in  the  world.  Painting's  perfectly  safe  with 
her  by  me — perfectly  safe.  .  .  .  But  nothing's  safe  without. 
I  shall  slip  again  without  her  now.  I  felt  myself  even  begin 
to  slip  that  time  you  said  she  was  going  away.  It  was 
frightening.  .  .  .  Don't  ask  me  to  try  the  experiment,  sir; 
it's  so  horribly  risky;  but  if  they  were  to  spring  it  on  me 
that  she  was  going  away  I  know  quite  well  what  would  hap- 
pen. It  would  be  like  before ;  I  should  have  to  pack  up  my 
traps  and  disappear  again.  And  that  time  it  would  be  the 
end.  .  .  .  But  as  long  as  I'm  with  her  it's  all  clear  ahead — 
the  new  way — the  way  I  always  tried  to  find  and  always 
missed — il  est  venu  le  jour " 

He  was  hardly  speaking  to  me.  Little  as  I  could  see  of 
his  face,  I  could  divine  what  passed  there.  After  that  re- 
cent violence,  this  almost  dumb  meekness  and  awaiting  my 
judgment.  And  because  he  was  not  speaking  to  me,  but 
was  communing  with  his  own  solitary  soul  as  gravely  as  he 
had  bent  his  knee  before  That  which  rose  above  us  into  the 
night,  I  knew  that  I  must  end  by  believing  him.  At  a  word 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  305 

I  could  have  sent  her  away.  He  had  offered  to  put  himself 
to  the  test  of  her  departure.  That  he  might  be  believed  he 
had  even  offered  to  risk  once  more  that  hideous  hiatus  in 
his  life. 

But  it  was  not  demonstration  that  swayed  me  to  my 
irrevocable  act.  It  was  rather  that  transcending  love  that 
he  himself  had  invoked.  Love  and  pity  lest  this  my  son 
should  once  more  be  cast  to  the  wolves  of  pain  welled  up 
like  a  sudden  fountain  in  my  heart.  Nay,  not  from  my 
own  poor  heart  did  it  well,  but  from  That  above  us  that 
showed  its  dim  crowned  head  and  outspread  arms  every  four 
seconds,  every  eleven  seconds,  four  times  a  minute,  cloaked 
itself  in  the  night  again,  and  again  softly  reappeared  with 
the  sweep  of  the  occulted  Light — from  That  I  think  my  pity 
descended.  No  thought  for  the  morrow  had  that  Original 
taken,  no  care  of  father  or  mother  or  friend,  but  only  for 
the  weak  and  the  outcasts  of  the  world.  Who  was  outcast 
if  this  grave  and  destiny-ridden  young  figure  before  me  was 
not  ?  I  had  stood  before  him  waiting  for  him  to  strike  me 
down;  now  in  his  patience  and  submission  he  struck  me 
down. 

I  could  leave  the  Airds.  I  could  turn  my  back  on  them 
for  ever.  This  dark-bloused  lad  was  my  loved  son,  who 
mutely  implored  me  to  be  given  his  chance.  Were  the  Airds 
to  die  I  should  have  to  part  from  them.  Death,  that  comes 
unannounced  at  any  moment,  parts  us  from  all  our  friends. 
'My  portrait  need  never  hang  in  the  Lyonnesse  Club  to  re- 
mind Madge  Aird  that  she  had  once  had  a  friend  who  had 
betrayed  her.  I  need  not  even  return  to  England.  So 
Derry  might  but  establish  himself,  what  did  it  matter  though 
I  wandered  ?  I  had  no  love,  nobody  had  a  love  for  me,  such 
as  that  that  made  his  days  and  nights  softly  radiant.  In  a 
few  years  I  should  be  gone.  But  he  would  be  once  more  in 
the  glory  of  his  prime,  living  a  life  of  my  giving.  In  him 
would  be  my  resurrection.  To  help  him  over  this  dead  point 
the  rest  of  my  life  was  at  his  service. 

His  prayer  should  be  answered. 

But  not  without  a  stipulation.     When  all  is  said  one  has 


306  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

to  be  practical.  Should  she  after  all  fail  to  lead  him  by 
the  hand  forward  again  into  those  fair  and  untrodden  fields 
of  life,  all  was  rescinded.  He  must  report  progress.  No 
step  must  be  taken  without  my  knowledge.  One  does  not 
meditate  a  treason  against  one's  friends  quite  so  light-heart- 
edly as  all  that.  Nor  need  he  yet  be  told  what  I  had  in  my 
mind.  I  turned  to  him. 

"I  shall  go  back  now,"  I  said. 

He  did  not  speak. 

"But  I  shall  do  nothing  to-night.  In  fact  I  won't  do  any- 
thing till  I've  seen  you  again." 

He  did  not  thank  me  in  words. 

"But  the  understanding  is  that  you  do  nothing  either.  Is 
that  agreed  ?" 

"I  promise  that,  sir." 

"Then  that's  all.  I'm  very  tired.  I  think  I  want  to 
sleep." 

"Won't  you  lean  on  my  shoulder,  sir  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  will " 

Only  to  touch  her  willing  hand — only  to  carry  her  letter 
in  his  breast — only  to  feel  that  in  the  unison  of  their  two 
hearts  the  rest  of  the  world  might  be  lost  in  oblivion 


VI 

My  reason  for  not  telling  him  of  my  decision  was  that  I 
did  not  wish  him  to  have  the  uneasiness  of  knowing  that  he 
was  responsible  for  it.  Nor  am  I  apologising  for  the  mood 
in  which  I  had  made  my  choice.  I  had  done  so,  however, 
without  very  much  regard  for  necessary  and  practical  de- 
tails. These  it  was  that  I  began  to  turn  over  in  my  mind 
as,  racked  and  restless,  I  lay  in  my  bed  that  night. 

And  first  of  all  I  began  to  realise  that  my  choice  involved 
me  straight  away  in  that  very  web  of  sophistry  and  dissimu- 
lation that  I  had  wished  to  avoid.  I  had  imagined  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  that  by  walking  out  of  the  Airds'  house 
with  the  most  plausible  explanation  I  could  find,  or  for  that 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  307 

matter  none  at  all,  I  should  be  observing  some  sort  of  a 
decency  to  the  roof  that  had  so  hospitably  sheltered  me. 
But  when  I  came  to  look  at  it  again !  .  .  .  Good  God,  what 
sort  of  decency  was  that?  To  begin  with,  when  you  walk 
away  from  somewhere  you  walk  to  somewhere,  and  where 
was  I  to  walk  to?  Away  from  Dinard  altogether?  That 
would  be  to  walk  away  from  Derry.  Take  him  away  with 
me  ?  That  would  be  to  take  him  away  from  Jennie  and  all 
hope.  Move  to  an  hotel  ?  I  should  be  running  into  my  late 
friends  every  hour,  at  every  turn. 

In  a  word,  what  I  was  contemplating  was  not  war  on  the 
Airds,  nor  even  a  hypocritical  neutrality.  It  was  a  vile 
assassination.  And  suddenly  I  saw,  and  with  a  most  singu- 
lar clearness,  that  my  only  way  out,  the  only  possible  and 
honourable  course,  was  not  to  leave  the  Airds  and  Dinard 
at  all,  but  to  leave  the  earth  altogether.  Believe  me,  who 
know,  that  that  in  the  end  is  what  contact  with  such  a  man 
as  Derwent  Rose  amounts  to. 

But  I  cannot  say  that  suicide,  sentimental,  religious  or  of 
whatever  kind,  has  ever  strongly  attracted  me.  There  was 
a  much,  much  simpler  way  out.  Derry  knew  nothing  of 
what  had  passed  through  my  mind  while  Frehel's  sweeping 
beam  had  conjured  up  that  pallid  Christ  out  of  the  darkness. 
I  had  not  told  him  that  I  was  prepared  to  sacrifice  myself  for 
him.  All  that  he  had  been  promised  was  a  respite  on  terms 
till  to-morrow. 

A  flood  of  mean  gratitude  swept  over  me  that  I  had  told 
him  no  more.  I  have  never  known  a  viler  or  more  shameful 
ease  than  that  that  possessed  me  when  it  became  plain  that 
I  could  go  back  on  him  and  he  be  none  the  wiser.  I  am 
not  sure  that  my  recreant  lips  had  not  the  impudence  to 
thank  God  that  only  I  knew  the  depth  of  my  cowardice  and 
indecision. 

For  my  plan  was  utterly  impossible  of  execution.  It  was 
as  impossible  to  give  him  his  chance  as  I  had  found  it  to 
refuse  it.  Racked  and  restless  I  tossed.  I  even  imagine  I 
had  a  slight  touch  of  delirium,  for  fantastic  thoughts  and 
images  seemed  to  dance  and  interweave  and  pop  up  and 


308  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

disappear  again  before  me.  I  saw  Derry  back  in  Cambridge 
Circus  again,  and  his  black  oak  furniture  played  the  most 
unamusing  tricks.  Sometimes  his  table  would  be  a  litter 
of  newspapers  and  clothing  and  brown  paper,  with  an  over- 
turned teacup  and  the  two  halves  of  a  torn  novel  lying  on 
the  top;  then  it  would  magically  clear  itself,  and  Jennie 
would  be  standing  by  it,  a  sort  of  mental  extension  of  Jen- 
nie, whose  face,  however,  I  did  not  see.  His  catalogued 
shelves  of  books  would  disappear,  and  there  would  be  an 
easel  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  canvases  round  the 
walls,  and  these  would  change  to  the  rugs  and  lacquer  of 
Julia  Oliphant's  little  recess.  .  .  .  Then  the  whole  of  Cam- 
bridge would  slide  obliquely  away,  and  I  would  see  Jennie's 
back  as  she  mounted  the  ladder  of  a  South  Kensington 
Mews.  Then  he  would  appear  from  nowhere  and  take  her 
in  his  arms,  and  he  had  a  golden  beard,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment was  riding  in  a  hansom  with  nothing  of  Jennie  visible 
but  her  slipper.  .  .  .  Julia  Oliphant's  slipper  in  the  Picca- 
dilly, Peggy  and  her  garters,  lots  of  slippers,  Jennie's  danc- 
ing slippers,  Jennie  in  the  Dinard  Bazaar,  Jennie  at  the 
guichet  slipping  a  note  into  his  hand.  The  ticking  of  my 
watch  on  the  table  annoyed  me,  but  I  did  not  get  up,  and 
presently  I  had  ceased  to  hear  it.  Then  it  came  again,  regu- 
larly, irregularly,  once  every  four  seconds,  once  every  eleven 
seconds,  tick-tick,  darkness  and  the  Light,  tick-tick,  dark- 
ness and  the  Light.  .  .  . 

So  I  tossed,  waking  every  now  and  then  with  a  start  to 
tell  myself  that  something  must  be  done — where  nothing 
was  possible  to  be  done. 

And  so,  like  Peter,  I  was  prepared  to  deny  him  ere  the 
cock  crew. 

I  had,  in  fact,  a  touch  of  fever.  The  next  morning  I 
managed  to  dress  for  dejeuner,  but  when  I  entered  the  salon 
I  must  needs  choose  that  moment  to  give  a  little  lurch  and 
stagger.  Alec  caught  me. 

"Here,  what's  all  this  about?"  he  said. 

"It's  all  right." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  309 

He  gave  me  a  quick  look.  "It  isn't  all  right.  You'd 
better  come  upstairs  to  bed  again." 

So  I  was  undressed,  and  back  into  bed  I  was  put,  my 
protests  notwithstanding. 

The  affection  with  which  I  was  treated  certainly  helped 
me  very  little  in  my  resolution  to  glide  like  a  snake  noise- 
lessly out  of  this  house,  leaving  my  poison  behind  me. 
Madge  was  in  and  out  the  whole  of  the  afternoon,  a  perfect 
angel  of  attention  and  comfort;  Alec  hunted  out  an  English 
doctor — I  am  sure  he  believed  that  a  French  one  would 
subtly  and  diabolically  have  made  away  with  me.  I  was 
told  that  I  must  stay  in  bed  for  some  days.  I  demurred, 
but  I  really  doubt  whether  I  could  have  got  up. 

So  they  turned  Ker  Annie  upside  down  for  me.  To  leave 
father  and  mother  and  friends  is  a  thing  you  have  to  do 
quickly  and  with  immediate  acceptance  of  the  consequences, 
or  not  to  do  at  all.  You  mustn't  begin  to  let  people  be  kind 
to  you. 

And  no  less  than  in  material  things  were  they  solicitous 
to  keep  from  me  anything  that  might  worry  me.  Madge 
laughed  away  my  apologies  for  the  havoc  I  made  of  her 
engagements,  Alec  vowed  that  it  was  a  top-hole  way  of 
spending  a  holiday  to  sit  at  my  open  window,  pretending  he 
was  smoking  outside,  while  the  gentle  summer  breeze  that 
stirred  the  curtains  blew  it  all  in  again.  I  think  his  crown- 
ing kindness  was  to  get  in  a  barber  daily  to  shave  me.  Were 
I  to  grow  a  beard  I  fear  it  would  not  be  a  golden  one. 

And  even  Jennie  visited  me  once  or  twice,  which  is  very 
much  indeed  from  seventeen  who  has  never  known  a  head- 
ache to  one  who  has  known  more  than  he  cares  to  think 
about. 

On  Jennie's  first  two  visits  to  me  other  people  were  in  and 
out  of  the  room ;  but  on  the  third  occasion  I  was  alone.  It 
was  mid-afternoon,  and  Madge  and  Alec,  I  knew,  had  gone 
out  to  pay  a  call.  They  had  left  me  everything  that  I  was 
likely  to  need  until  their  return,  and  I  had  imagined  the 
house  to  be  empty.  But  Jennie  tapped  and  entered,  and 


310  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

asked  me  how  I  was.  Then  she  crossed  over  and  stood  by 
the  window,  where  the  sun  touched  the  gold  of  her  hair  and 
showed  the  shadow  of  her  arms  within  her  light  sleeves. 

"Nothing  very  amusing  to  do  this  afternoon,  Jennie?" 
I  asked  from  my  pillow. 

"No,  only  pottering  about,"  she  replied. 

"Then  won't  you  come  and  have  tea  with  me  presently?" 

"I'll  order  it  now  if  you  like." 

"Do,  and  then  come  back  and  sit  with  me  unless  it  bores 
you." 

She  went  out,  and  presently  returned.  She  was  not 
particularly  good  about  a  sick-room.  She  gave  a  super- 
fluous touch  to  things  here  and  there,  and  then  bent  over 
me  and  shook  my  pillow  with  a  gesture  that  somehow  re- 
minded me  of  that  quick  little  run  to  her  mother's  side  at 
the  tramway  terminus  at  St  Briac. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Thank  you — presently  perhaps." 

"Did  they  change  those  flowers  this  morning?" 

I  smiled.  "There  won't  be  any  flowers  left  in  the  garden 
soon,  I  get  so  many." 

"Then  there  isn't  anything  I  can  do,"  she  said  helplessly. 

Poor  child,  I  don't  think  that  I  myself  was  entirely  the 
object  of  her  concern — no,  not  even  though  I  was  so  blest  as 
to  be  a  link  between  her  and  a  certain  young  Englishman 
who  went  about  in  French  clothes  and  was  known  by  a 
French  name.  I  don't  think  she  quite  knew  what  she 
wanted,  except  that  it  was  exquisite  to  be  a  little  mournful, 
and  to  be  doing  something  for  somebody.  In  spite  of  that 
impulsive  little  gesture,  I  don't  think  her  mother  had  her 
confidence.  That  was  rather  the  compounding  of  a  secrecy 
than  a  confidence.  It  was  an  atonement,  a  guilty  little 
reparation  that  but  locked  up  her  secret  the  more  securely. 
I  am  aware  that  young  girls  are  traditionally  supposed  to 
fly  instantly  to  their  mothers  with  their  troubles  of  this 
sort.  I  can  only  say  that  that  is  not  my  experience.  Far 
more  frequently  they  will  fly  to  a  confidante  of  their  own 
age,  and  even  once  in  a  while  to  a  person  like  myself.  Her 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  311 

mother  would  be  much,  oh,  ever  so  much  to  her;  but  she 
would  not  be  told  about  that  note  that  had  been  surrep- 
titiously slipped  from  hand  to  hand. 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  for  the 
last  three  days,  Jennie?"  I  asked. 

A  Brittany  crock  of  genets  made  fragrant  the  room. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  flowers. 

"Yesterday  I  went  for  a  bicycle  ride,"  she  said. 

"Oh  ?    I  didn't  know  you  had  a  bicycle  here." 

"I  hadn't.    I  hired  one." 

"Where  did  you  go?    Anywhere  nice?" 

Instead  of  answering  my  question  she  said,  with  her  eyes 
still  on  the  flowers,  "I've  got  something  for  you,  Uncle 
George." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"Here  it  is." 

From  some  tuck  in  the  region  of  her  waist  she  drew  out 
a  note,  which  she  handed  to  me.  With  my  elbow  on  my 
pillow  I  read  it.  It  was  on  a  page  torn  out  from  a  sketch- 
book, and  it  ran: 

"I  hear  you're  laid  up  and  hope  you'll  soon  be  all  right 
again.  I  didn't  thank  you  properly  the  other  night;  I 
couldn't ;  you  know  what  I  mean.  Don't  worry  about  my 
not  keeping  my  promise;  that's  all  right;  everything's  as- 
you-were  till  you're  about  again.  But  then  I  want  to  see 
you  as  soon  as  ever  you  can.  You  get  well  and  don't 
worry. 

"D.  R." 

Slowly  I  folded  up  the  note  and  put  it  into  the  pocket  of 
my  pyjama-jacket.  She  seemed  fully  to  expect  my  silence. 
The  shadow  of  a  marten  fled  swiftly  across  the  sill  of  the 
window.  The  house-martens  built  at  Ker  Annie. 

At  last,  "I  see,"  I  said  slowly.    "I  see." 

She  did  not  seem  to  think  it  necessary  to  reply.  Neither 
was  it. 

"I    see,"    I    said    again.      Then,    "Yesterday   you    went 


312  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

cycling,"   I   said.     "What   did   you  do  the   day  before?" 

"I  went  for  a  walk." 

"And  the  day  before  that?" 

"I  went  for  a  walk  too." 

"Jennie  .  .  .  were  they  supposed  to  know  about  these 
walks — you  know  who  I  mean?" 

"Father  and  mother?    No." 

"Where  did  they  think  you  were?" 

"Don't  know.     I  didn't  say  anything  at  all." 

"They've  no  idea  you  went  for  two  walks  and  a  bicycle 
ride  with  Monsieur  Arnaud?" 

No  reply. 

That  is  to  say,  no  reply  in  words;  but  for  anything  else 
her  reply  was  plain  enough.  In  every  line  of  her  lovely 
resolute  short-featured  little  face  I  read  that  they  did  not 
know,  were  not  to  know,  and  that  in  the  last  resort  she 
didn't  care  a  straw  whether  they  knew  or  not.  And  I  re- 
membered that  in  the  matter  of  the  note  it  was  she  who  had 
taken  the  initiative,  not  he.  A  beautiful  young  woman  is 
the  devil  from  the  moment  when  she  gets  too  old  to  slap. 

But  the  thing  was  grave.  He  had  given  me  an  under- 
taking which,  his  note  now  assured  me,  he  was  faithfully 
keeping;  but  I  had  no  undertaking  from  her.  And  bach- 
elor as  I  am,  I  am  under  no  delusions  as  to  what  happens 
when  mine,  the  proud,  stalking,  choosing  sex,  is  marked 
down  by  its  demure,  still  and  emotional  opposite  number. 
Something  can  be  done  with  us;  we  give  undertakings  and 
abide  by  them;  but  what  can  be  done  when  the  Jennie  Airds 
take  the  bit  between  those  pearls  of  their  teeth  ?  I  shook  my 
head.  I  shake  it  over  the  same  problem  still. 

"But  look  here,  Jennie,"  I  said  quietly.  "This  is  all  very 
well,  but  is  it  quite — playing  the  game  ?" 

This  also  she  evidently  expected.  "About  father  and 
mother?  I've  left  school.  I'm  old  enough  to  think  for 
myself.  Mother  says  so.  Anyway  I'm  going  to.  She 
always  said  I  should." 

"But  mother  doesn't  know  about  these  walks  and  bicycle 
rides." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  313 

Obstinately  she  contested  every  little  point,  even  a  casual 
plural. 

"There's  only  been  one  bicycle  ride." 

"One  then.    She  doesn't  know  about  it." 

"I  can't  help  that." 

"But  of  course  you  could " 

"No  I  couldn't,"  she  rapped  out.  "I  mean  I  just  can't 
help  it.  How  can  anybody  help  it?  How  can  anybody  do 
anything  about  it  ?  It's  a  thing  that  happens  to  you,  and  it 
happened  to  them  before,  and  I  expect  they  did  just  as  they 
liked  about  it,  and  didn't  care  a  bit  what  anybody  said!  I 
can  just  see  mother  if  anybody'd  said  she  wasn't  going  for 
a  walk  with  father !" 

"You  can't  see  anything  of  the  sort,  Jennie.  If  I  remem- 
ber rightly  what  your  mother  said,  she  had  to  sit  still  in 
her  own  carriage  till  her  own  footman  opened  the  door. 
That  was  what  happened  when  your  mother  was  your  age." 

"Well,  they  don't  do  that  nowadays,  and  mother  knows 
it,"  she  retorted. 

The  heartless  logic  of  youth!  It  will  turn  your  own 
words  against  you  as  soon  as  look  at  you.  Because  her 
mother  had  recognised  that  the  world  did  not  stand  still 
she  was  to  be  made  an  accessory  to  this  deception. 

"Then,"  I  said  presently,  "if  they  don't  know,  ought  I 
to  know?" 

"You  knew  before,"  she  said.    "They  didn't." 

"But  they're  bound  to  find  out." 

"Oh,  I  expect  everything  will  be  settled  by  then!"  she 
calmly  announced. 

The  dickens  it  would !  I  lay  back  on  my  pillow.  Fortu- 
nately the  appearance  of  tea  at  that  moment  gave  me  a  little 
time  in  which  to  collect  my  thoughts.  Jennie  removed 
various  objects  from  the  bedside  table,  took  the  tray  from 
the  maid,  and  began  to  pour  out. 

"Then,"  I  said  by  and  by,  "why  aren't  you  bicycling — 
or  walking — this  afternoon  ?"  I  wanted  to  have  the  position 
quite  clear.  If  she  could  spend  three  days  with  him  in  suc- 
cession, why  not  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth,  and  a  sixth  ? 


314  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"I  had  to  give  that  note  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  the  note!  I  forgot  that.  .  .  .  Have  you  any  idea 
what's  in  it  ?" 

She  blushed  crimson,  flamed  with  reproach.  All  the 
same,  I  contrasted  her  shameless  deception  of  her  parents 
with  this  point  of  honour  about  peeping  into  an  unsealed 
note  to  myself.  These  heaven-born  young  beauties  draw 
the  line  in  such  odd  places. 

"I  never  thought ",  she  said,  biting  her  lip;  and  I 

hastened  to  set  her  right. 

"Good  heavens,  Jennie,  you  can't  think  that  I  meant  that! 
I  meant  in  a  general  way,  what  the  subject  of  it  is." 

"I  know  what  he  thinks,"  she  said,  the  fierce  colour  slowly 
retiring  again. 

"Well,  what  does  he  think?" 

"He  thinks  you  were  perfectly  ripping  to  him  the  other 
night,  about  not  doing  anything  till  you  saw  him  again,  and 
when  I  told  him  you  were  ill  he  was  awfully  upset,  and  tore 
a  page  out  of  his  sketch-book  and  wrote  the  note  that  very 
moment." 

The  devil !  .  .  .  But  I  went  on. 

"So  he  was  sketching,  and  you  went  with  him  ?" 

"Yes.  He  did  a  sweet  sketch,  with  me  in  it,"  she  breathed, 
her  eyes  softly  shining. 

Only  to  see  her  and  to  go  for  bicycle-rides  with  her — 
only  to  speak  to  her  and  to  paint  her  among  the  glowing 
sarrasin,  the  green  translucence  of  the  woods,  the  golden 
seaweed  of  the  rocks  or  wherever  it  was 

"Oh,  he  did!    And  where  was  this?" 

It  was  neither  among  the  sarrasin,  nor  in  the  green  woods, 
nor  on  the  shore. 

"It  was  miles  and  miles  away,  right  past  Saint  Samson, 
nearly  at  Dinan,  at  a  chateau  called  La  Garaye,"  she  said 
softly.  "I  never  saw  anything  so  lovely.  There's  a  huge 
wide  avenue  of  beeches  like  a  tunnel — it's  all  in  the  middle 
of  a  lovely  beechwood — and  there's  a  lovely  soft  grass-ride 
right  down  the  middle.  Then  at  the  bottom  there  are  two 
great  masses  of  ivy  that  used  to  be  the  chateau  gates.  And 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  315 

past  them  are  the  little  white  bits  of  the  ruins.  And  there 
was  an  enormous  loud  humming  everywhere,  like  a  hundred 
aeroplanes.  That  was  them  thrashing  at  the  farm  with 
four  horses  that  went  round  and  round.  We  rode  our 
bicycles  down  the  green  ride  and  put  them  up  by  some 
farm-buildings.  They  don't  a  bit  mind  your  going  any- 
where you  like,  and  they  said  he  could  paint  if  he  wanted 
to.  So  he  got  out  his  things  and  I  watched  him.  He  didn't 
want  me  for  the  picture  at  once,  because  he  had  all  the 
other  to  do  first.  Then  he  made  me  lie  down  in  a  fright- 
fully nettley  place,  but  he  only  laughed  and  said  I'd  got  to 
be  just  there  because  it  was  where  he  wanted  me.  My 
hands  are  all  nettled  yet,  look.  So  he  painted  me,  Uncle 
George,  and  that  horse-thing  never  stopped  humming,  and 
oh,  it  was  so  hot  and  blue  and  drowsy — I  nearly  went  to 
sleep  once.  But  the  loveliest  thing  of  all  was  afterwards. 
We  climbed  about  among  all  those  stones  and  ivy,  and  then 
there  was  a  tower.  Just  like  a  castle  tower,  Uncle  George, 
but  not  a  hole  or  a  window  anywhere,  except  a  place  at  the 
bottom  just  big  enough  to  creep  through.  And  what  it  was 
was  an  old  pigeon-place,  where  they  used  to  keep  pigeons. 
All  honeycombed  inside  with  holes  for  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  pigeons.  But,  of  course,  there  weren't  any  pig- 
eons there,  only  an  old  sitting  hen  among  the  nettles  that 
scurried  round  and  round  and  then  clucked  away.  It  was 
like  being  at  the  bottom  of  a  kiln  or  something,  with  grasses 
and  flowers  and  things  round  the  top  and  the  sky  ^-ver  so 
blue !  And  all  those  thousands  of  pigeon-holes,  all  grown 
up  with  birch  and  ivy  and  nettles  and  that  silly  old  hen !  I 
picked  a  bit  of  herb-robert.  Oh,  it  was  a  heavenly  place !" 

Heavenly  indeed,  I  thought  grimly.  Heaven  enough  in- 
side that  columbarium,  with  only  a  small  hole  to  creep  in  at, 
and  the  muffled  drone  of  that  horse-gin,  shut  out  by  the 
walls  that  had  once  been  filled  with  the  cushing  of  a  thou- 
sand doves  and  only  God's  blue  looking  down  on  them 
from  the  top ! 

Heavenly  enough  to  make  your  heart  ache  when  you  re- 
membered that  there,  in  that  ruined  place  of  dead  doves,  he 


316  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

conscientiously  sought  to  keep  his  promise  to  me — while  she 
had  given  never  a  word  to  take  back.  Oh,  I  saw  it  all  right. 
No  question  about  that.  She  took  very  good  care  that  I 
should  see  it.  ... 

For  I  was  being  as  softly  cajoled  and  canvassed  and 
propagandised  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life.  Derry,  piloting 
me  from  shop  to  shop  into  the  Dinard  Bazaar,  had  taken  me 
by  the  arm ;  but  she  wound  herself  in  among  my  very  heart- 
strings. And  her  plan  was  to  upheap  me  with  unasked  con- 
fidences before  I  could  say  her  nay.  After  that,  if  I  guessed 
her  thoughts  rightly,  there  would  be  nothing  for  me  to  do 
but  to  respect  the  sacred  but  unwanted  encumbrance.  I 
should  then  be  enlisted  against  Alec  and  Madge.  Those  of 
us  whom  the  years  have  perhaps  mellowed  a  little  are  ever 
at  the  mercy  of  calculated  guile  of  this  sort.  To  tell  some- 
body something  they  don't  want  to  know — and  then  to  put 
them  upon  their  honour  not  to  divulge  it ! 

The  boy,  the  father  of  the  man,  indeed!  Save  us  from 
the  machinations  of  the  maiden  who  is  mother  of  the 
woman ! 

For  she  was  a  woman.  In  little  more  than  a  week  or 
two  she  had  almost  visibly  altered,  shot  up  into  maturity. 
I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  keep  his  word  to  me ;  but — 
only  to  see  her,  only  to  speak  to  her!  Only!  Though  it 
were  but  looking,  what  inch  of  beauty  was  there  about  her 
of  which  I  could  dare  to  say,  "His  eyes  have  not  embraced 
that,  his  glance  has  not  been  as  his  very  lips  upon  it?" 
Though  it  were  but  hearing,  what  tone  was  there  in  the 
sweet  gamut  of  her  voice  of  which  I  could  tell  myself,  "His 
ears  at  any  rate  have  not  heard  that?"  Not  one.  And 
under  the  homage  of  his  gazing,  under  the  flattery  of  his 
hearing,  the  last  particle  of  her  girlhood  had  turned  and 
altered.  That  hair,  so  recently  a  ruddy  plait  to  be  "put  up" 
on  occasion,  was  now  a  bride's  single  garland,  its  golden 
strands  to  be  unwound  again  on  an  occasion  that  was  not 
even  her  parents'  concern.  Disdain  was  now  all  that  young 
Charterhouse,  young  Rugby  had  from  those  pebble-grey 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  317 

eyes.  And  that  tongue  of  hers,  lately  so  petulant  with  the 
world,  was  now  her  subtlest  weapon,  to  get  under  my  guard, 
to  seduce  me  with  her  confidences  about  pigeon-towers  and 
what  not,  and  by  and  by  (I  had  not  the  slightest  doubt)  to 
say  with  a  touching  and  heartfelt  sigh,  "Oh,  what  a  com- 
fort it  is  to  have  one  person  one  can  tell  everything  to !" 

But  this  was  all  very  well.  Quite  excellent  to  pat  my 
pillow,  and  ask  me  whether  my  flowers  had  been  changed, 
and  to  fuss  about  pouring  out  tea  for  me.  But,  while  I  had 
more  or  less  got  their  measure  singly,  I  had  no  idea  what 
double-dealing  they  might  not  be  capable  of  together.  So 
as  she  still  sat  with  shining  eyes,  dreaming  again  of  that 
columbarium,  I  pressed  to  the  next  point. 

"So  he  painted  you.    All  in  one  sitting?" 

She  dropped  the  eyes.  "I  think  he  said  it  might  take 
three  or  four." 

"In  fact  it  might  be  cheaper  in  the  long  run  to  buy  the 
bicycle  instead  of  hiring  it?" 

She  was  demure.    "Oh,  I  don't  think  so,  Uncle  George." 

"What  do  they  charge  for  the  hire  of  a  bicycle  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Uncle  George.  I  haven't  paid  anything 
yet." 

"Then  you  still  have  it?  Haven't  they  asked  any  ques- 
tions about  it?" 

She  looked  quickly  and  innocently  up.  "Father?  .  .  . 
Oh,  it  isn't  here !  You  see  the  tram's  almost  as  quick  to  St 
Briac." 

"Oh!    Then  it's  at  St  Briac?" 

"Yes.     In  the  kitchen." 

"The  kitchen  where  Coco  lives?" 

"Yes.  That  one.  But,  of  course,  Coco's  outside  except 
when  it's  raining.  And  he  has  sung  'Quand  je  bois  mon  vin 
clairet.'  He  sang  it  beautifully." 

"I'm  sure  he  did,"  I  assented  grimly.  .  .  .  "Now  tell  me 
a  little  more  of  what  'Monsieur  Arnaud  said  when  he  was 
so  grateful  to  me  for  not  doing  my  plain  duty." 

Her  eyes  were  full  on  mine,  with  an  expression  I  did  not 


318  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

understand.  Somehow  the  pretty  scatter  of  freckles  across 
the  bridge  of  her  nose  seemed  to  give  the  look  an  added  di- 
rectness. Her  lips  parted,  but  not  in  a  smile. 

"You  needn't  call  him  Monsieur  Arnaud,"  she  said. 

"What  then?"  I  asked  quickly.  "What  do  you  call  him, 
if  I  may  ask?" 

At  her  reply  the  teacup  almost  dropped  from  my  hand. 

"That's  really  what  he  said  I  had  to  tell  you  this  after- 
noon," she  said.  "Of  course  I  call  him  Derry,  like  you." 


VII 

I  was  hardly  ill  enough  to  have  a  temperature-chart  over 
the  head  of  my  bed ;  had  there  been  one  heaven  knows  how 
high  into  the  hundreds  it  must  have  leaped.  I  had  been 
prepared  for  progression,  development.  Swiftly  as  things 
seemed  to  have  advanced,  from  taking  a  single  bicycle  ride 
with  him  to  keeping  a  bicycle  in  his  kitchen  was  after  all 
only  a  matter  of  degree.  But  this,  of  so  totally  different  a 
piece,  positively  stunned  me. 

"Derry!"  I  echoed  stupidly.    "Derry  what?" 

"Rose,  of  course."  Then,  rushing  almost  breathlessly  to 
forestall  me,  "But  of  course  I  know  it's  the  most  fr-r-right- 
ful  secret !  I  know  that  only  the  three  of  us  know.  And 
it's  splendid  of  you,  darling  Uncle  George,  to  have  stuck 
up  for  him  the  way  you  did !  I  wouldn't  breathe  a  single 
word,  not  if  they  were  to  stick  knives  into  me !" 

Her  eyes  brimmed  with  thanks  for  my  loyalty,  disloyalty 
or  whatever  it  was.  But  what,  in  God's  name,  had  he  been 
mad  enough  to  tell  her?  Everything?  Had  he  told  her  the 
whole  story  rather  than  strangle  her  on  the  spot  ? 

"Tell  me  what  he  said,"  I  moaned  in  a  weak  voice.  Better 
know  the  worst  and  get  it  over. 

"Of  course  I'm  going  to.  But  oh,  how  could  I  be  so 
horrid  to  you  about  that  note !  As  if  you  would  think  that 
I  should  peep  into  a  note  anyway!  You  do  forgive  me, 
don't  you  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION      f        319 

"If  you're  going  to  tell  me  tell  me  quickly,"  I  groaned. 

So  this,  if  you  please,  is  what  came  next : 

"It  was  while  we  were  in  that  pigeon-place,  where  the 
hen  was.  They  look  like  rows  and  rows  of  little  square 
holes,  where  the  pigeons  used  to  live  I  mean,  but  when  you 
put  your  hand  in  they're  quite  big  inside,  all  scooped  out, 
lots  of  room  for  both  pigeons  and  all  their  eggs.  And  one 
row  hooks  round  inside  one  way  and  the  other  the  other.  I 
discovered  that  when  I  put  my  hand  in,  and  I  turned  round 
to  tell  Derry.  And  do  you  know,  Uncle  George,  he's  got 
such  a  funny  name  for  that  place.  He  calls  it  the  Tower  of 
Oblivion.  I  didn't  know  what  oblivion  was,  so  I  didn't 
know  what  he  meant  just  at  first,  but  I  think  it's  a  splendid 
name  for  ft  now.  You  see " 

"You  were  saying  that  you  turned  round  to  tell  him  some- 
thing." 

"I  was  just  coming  to  that.  So  I  turned  round,  and  at 
first  I  had  rather  a  fright,  because  I  couldn't  see  him.  I 
thought  he'd  gone,  but  I  didn't  see  how  he  could,  because 
there  was  only  that  one  little  way  in  and  I  was  standing 
close  to  it.  Then  I  saw  him  behind  the  bushes  and  things, 
all  among  the  nettles,  and  his  head  was  against  the  wall.  I 
made  a  noise,  but  he  didn't  seem  to  hear  me.  So  then  I 
touched  him. 

"  'What's  the  matter,  M'sieur  Arnaud?'  I  said.  'Is  some- 
thing the  matter  ?' 

"Well,  he  didn't  move,  Uncle  George.  For  ever  so  long 
he  didn't  move.  Then  he  turned  round,  and  oh,  his  poor 
eyes !  I  don't  mean  he  was  crying.  He  didn't  cry  once  all 
the  time.  But  he  made  me  so  anxious  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do. 

"  'What  is  the  matter,  M'sieur  Arnaud  ?  Do  tell  me 
what's  the  matter !'  I  said. 

"  'You  mustn't  call  me  that,'  he  said.    'It  isn't  my  name.' 
'  'Not  your  name !'  I  said.     'But  Sir  George  Coverham 
calls  you  that,  and  mother  calls  you  that,  and  Sir  George 
wouldn't  have  told  mother  so  if  it  wasn't  so,  and  they  call 
you  that  where  you  live!' 


320  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

'  'They  do,  and  it  isn't  my  name,'  he  said.  'I  want  to 
tell  you  my  name,'  he  said. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  awfully  funny  everybody  calling  him 
something  that  wasn't  his  name.  So  I  said,  'Well,  what  is 
your  name?' 

"  'Rose,'  he  said. 

"  'What  besides  Rose?'  I  said. 

"  'Derwent,'  he  said.  'Derwent  Rose.  But  George  calls 
me  Derry.' 

"  'George?  Do  you  mean  Sir  George  Coverham?'  I  said. 
1  'Yes.  I  sometimes  call  him  George,'  he  said. 

"And  then,  Uncle  George,  he  put  his  head  against  the 
wall  again  and  went  on  saying  to  himself,  'The  Tower  of 
Oblivion,  the  Tower  of  Oblivion,'  over  and  over  again." 

I  closed  my  eyes,  but  it  was  like  closing  them  in  a  swing, 
so  sick  and  dizzy  did  I  feel.  I  had  never  seen  that  Tower 
in  my  life,  yet  somehow  I  seemed  to  be  there — walled  in, 
cut  off  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  with  only  that  hot  deep 
blue  overhead,  and  the  grasses  that  fringed  the  circular  top 
minutely  bright  and  intense  against  it.  The  loud  droning 
of  the  threshing-gin  at  the  adjacent  farm  seemed  to  be  in 
my  ears,  but  in  my  heart  was  a  more  moving  murmur. 
Gentle  and  forgotten  place!  With  what  croonings,  what 
flutterings,  had  it  not  once  been  astir!  Those  little  cavities 
into  which  she  had  thrust  her  hand  were  the  cells  of  a  once- 
throbbing  heart.  But  who  had  built  a  Tower  of  stone  to 
guard  the  dove's  faithfulness?  What  masonry  could  make 
that,  the  very  emblem  of  love,  more  secure?  Of  all  birds, 
the  constant  dove  to  be  thus  immured  ?  Towers  are  for  the 
defence  of  the  helpless,  not  of  that  invulnerable  meekness 
and  strength.  All  the  stones  in  the  world  could  not  more 
fortify  those  soft  immutable  hearts.  Such  humility,  yet  so 
stable:  such  defencelessness,  yet  so  steadfast!  It  was  in 
this  wondrous  place,  thrice  strong  without  but  ten  times 
strong  within,  that  Derwent  Rose  had  sought  his  atonement. 
He  too,  hard  without,  was  all  tenderness  within.  He  had 
no  choice  but  to  lie  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  she  must 
be  told  the  truth.  Arnaud  would  do  well  enough  for  others, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  321 

but  he  had  no  peace  unless  to  her  he  was  Derwent  Rose.  It 
was  his  comfort  to  tell  her  so,  and  that  Tower  was  in  truth 
his  confessional,  the  Oblivion  of  his  dead  years. 

"But  of  course  you  know  all  about  it,  Uncle  George,"  she 
went  on.  "I  didn't,  you  see,  and  that's  what  made  it  sound 
so  queer.  So  I  said  to  him,  'But  why  do  you  call  yourself 
Arnaud  if  your  name  is  Rose  ?' 

"  'Because  something  once  happened  to  me,'  he  said. 

"'What?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'I  don't  know,'  he  said.  'George  doesn't  know.  Nobody 
knows.  A  doctor  once  tried  to  tell  me,  but  he  didn't  know 
either.' 

"  'But  what  sort  of  a  thing?'  I  said.    'What  does  it  do?' 

"  'It  makes  me  younger,'  he  said.  'I'm  years  and  years 
older  than  I  look.  I'm  not  young  at  all.' 

"  'But  I  don't  understand,'  I  said.  'If  it  makes  you  young 
then  you  are  young,  aren't  you  ?' 

"And  then  he  smiled.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  smile. 
He'd  been  fearfully  mopey  up  to  then. 

"  'That's  so/  he  said.  'And  anyway  it's  all  over  now.  If 
it  wasn't  I  shouldn't  be  telling  you.  If  it  wasn't  over  I 
shouldn't  be  here,  Jennie.' 

"He  called  me  Jennie  for  the  first  time.  He  hadn't  called 
me  anything  up  to  then,  ever. 

"  'Then  if  it's  all  over  what  are  you  bothering  about  it 
for  ?'  I  said.  'Was  it  your  fault  ?* 

"  'No,'  he  said. 

"  'Then,'  I  said,  'if  a  thing  isn't  a  person's  fault  I  think 
we  ought  to  be  sorry  for  them,  and  it  doesn't  matter  if  it's 
all  over.  And,'  I  said,  'if  Uncle  George  calls  you  Derry  I'm 
going  to  call  you  Derry  too.  It  really  is  all  over,  Derry 
dear?' 

"  'Look,  Jennie,'  he  said. 

"And  then,  Uncle  George,  he  looked  up  at  the  sky  out 
of  the  top  of  the  Tower,  and  bent  his  knee  and  crossed 
himself  three  times,  like  this." 

Over  her  young  breast  her  hand  did  what  his  had  done. 

"  'And  you  promise  it  wasn't  your  fault  ?'  I  said. 


322  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"  'That  was  my  promise,  Jennie,'  he  said. 

"  'Then/  I  said,  'I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  about 
it.  I  won't  listen.  You're  not  to  tell  me  any  more.' 

"So  I  wouldn't  listen,  and  when  he  opened  his  mouth  I 
just  did  this— 

And  laughingly,  with  her  hands  tight  over  her  ears,  she 
shook  her  head.  She  would  no  more  peep  behind  his  word 
than  she  would  have  peeped  into  his  note. 

"And  all  this  was  yesterday?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  he  to-day?" 

"I  only  saw  him  just  for  a  minute  this  morning.  He 
wouldn't  let  me  go  with  him  to-day.  He  said  I  must  come 
to  you  and  tell  you  what  I've  just  told  you.  So  I  waited 
till  father  and  mother  had  gone  out  and  then  I  came." 

"And  when  father  and  mother  come  back?  How  do  I 
stand?  What  am  I  to  do?" 

She  sat  straight  up.  "To  do,  Uncle  George?  But  you 
promised  him!" 

"I  promised  him  for  the  moment." 

"Well,  this  is  the  moment,  isn't  it?  You'll  see  him  as 
soon  as  ever  you  get  up  again,  won't  you?" 

"Between  the  two  of  you  I  don't  seem  to  have  very  much 
choice,"  I  muttered.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  through  the  open  window  came  the  sound  of 
voices  below.  Alec  and  Madge  had  returned.  Jennie  flew 
to  my  glass,  and  then,  apparently  finding  all  well  there, 
turned,  smiled,  and  put  her  finger  on  her  lips.  She  was 
busily  packing  up  my  tray  when  Madge  entered. 

"Well,  decided  to  live,  George?"  the  kind  creature  rallied 
me.  "All  sorts  of  sympathetic  messages  for  you  from  the 
Nobles  and  the  Fergusons  and  the  Tank  Beverleys — run- 
after  creature  that  you  are!  Been  to  sleep?" 

"No." 

Jennie  passed  behind  her  mother  with  the  tray.  She  gave 
me  a  half-veiled  glance  as  she  did  so.  Then,  almost  im- 
perceptibly, she  brushed  her  mother's  shoulder  with  her 
lips. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  323 

And  well,  I  thought,  she  might ! 

"Jennie  been  reading  to  you  ?"  said  Madge. 

"No,  we've  just  been  talking." 

"Well,  you'll  have  somebody  else  to  talk  to  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  We  didn't  want  to  trouble  you  with  the  affairs 
of  this  world  when  you  were  at  death's  door,  but  who  do 
you  think's  coming?" 

I  made  a  great  effort.    "Animal,  vegetable  or  mineral?" 

"Angel,  whichever  that  is,"  said  Madge. 

"I've  angels  enough  about  me." 

"Pooh!  .  .  .  Julia  Oliphant's  coming.  So  you'd  better 
get  your  colour  back  in  case  she  wants  to  paint  that  portrait 
here." 

With  which  comforting  words  she  took  up  my  bowl  of 
quite  fresh  flowers  and  marched  off  to  get  some  more. 


PART  III 
THE  CUT-OUT 


"But  won't  you  find  it  a  little  cold  ?" 

"Cold!"  Julia  laughed.  "If  Jennie  can  I  can;  why,  it's  a 
heavenly  day!  But  are  you  quite  warm?  You're  the  one 
we  have  to  coddle." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  all  right.  Well,  that's  your  tent,  the 
green-striped  one.  I'll  walk  along  to  the  rocks." 

She  took  the  escholtzia-hued  robe  and  other  fripperies 
from  my  arm,  nodded  smilingly,  and  passed  up  the  beach. 

The  Airds  and  their  set  bathed,  not  from  the  crowded 
plage  of  Dinard  proper,  but  in  the  quieter  bay  of  St  Enogat. 
The  beach  glistened  with  minute  particles  of  mica,  deposited 
in  moire  patterns  as  the  wavelets  had  left  them,  and  to  touch 
that  sand  with  your  hand  was  to  withdraw  it  again  all  in- 
finitesimally  spangled.  It  sparkled  like  gun-metal  in  the 
rocks,  floated  in  suspension  in  the  green  water.  You  would 
have  said  that  the  whole  shore  had  been  sown  with  that 
metallic  powder  with  which  children  used  to  tinsel  them- 
selves at  Christmas  parties. 

I  crossed  the  tent-bordered  plage  towards  the  rocks.  Al- 
ready a  dozen  bathers  splashed  and  played.  Every  contour 
of  wet  limb  reflected  the  warm  gold,  every  rubber-capped 
head  had  its  piercing  little  flash  of  sunlight.  I  looked  for 
Jennie's  yellow  cap,  but  did  not  see  it;  she  was  still  in  the 
tent  whither  she  had  preceded  Julia  five  minutes  before. 
But  I  saw  the  Beverley  girls,  of  whose  mutual  sufficiency 
Madge  so  strongly  disapproved.  Jennie  was  not  to  be 
brought  up  on  those  lines.  .  .  . 

I  lay  down  on  a  purple-weeded  rock  and  watched  the 
fruit  salad  of  the  bathers.  Scattered  over  the  beach  where 
they  had  dropped  them  lay  their  bright  wraps,  the  prints  of 
their  sandals  patterned  the  mica.  Tank  Beverley's  head 
could  be  seen,  a  dark  dot  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out,  and  in  the 

327 


328  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

green  marge  two  little  French  children  splashed,  brown  as 
nuts  and  innocent  of  any  garment  whatever.  Their  bare- 
footed mother  knitted  a  few  yards  from  where  I  sat,  their 
father  lay  by  her  side  with  his  panama  over  his  face.  The 
sun  shone  honey-yellow  through  the  wings  of  the  gulls,  and 
far  out  a  little  launch  crept  among  the  rocks  and  sent  its 
soft  "thut-thut"  over  the  water. 

Jennie  and  Julia  were  taking  rather  a  long  time  to  get 
ready,  I  thought,  and  I  hoped  all  was  well.  For  Jennie,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  was  behaving  abominably.  She  was 
far,  far  too  submissive  and  sweet  and  self-effacing  before 
the  older  woman — altogether  too  good  to  be  true — and  I 
happened  to  know  that  Madge  had  taken  her  to  task  about 
it  a  couple  of  days  before. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  can't  call  her  just  Julia  if  it  comes 
to  that,"  she  had  rebuked  her.  "She  isn't  a  hundred,  any- 
way. I  do  wish  you'd  stop  saying  'Aunt  Julia.'  " 

"I'm  very  sorry,  mother  darling.  Shall  I  call  her  Miss 
Oliphant?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  I  had  not  since  heard  her  use  any 
form  of  address  whatever. 

It  was  the  third  day  after  Julia's  arrival,  and  my  own 
longest  walk  since  my  touch  of  illness.  Without  even 
changing  her  travelling-things,  Julia  had  come  straight  up 
into  my  room  the  moment  of  her  arrival  at  Ker  Annie,  and, 
kneeling  down  by  my  bed,  had  taken  both  my  hands  into 
hers. 

"You  poor  old  George!"  she  had  laughed.  "So  this  is 
what  you've  been  and  gone  and  done  to  yourself !  Well,  we 
must  see  what  an  extra  nurse  can  do." 

"Had  you  a  good  crossing?" 

"•Well — crowded  wasn't  the  word ;  but  two  nice  dear  men 
looked  after  me.  I'd  a  scandalous  flirtation  with  one  of 
them ;  oh,  I  'got  off' ;  he  was  putting  my  collar  round  my 
neck  for  me  before  we  passed  the  Needles.  And  may  I 
solemnly  assure  you,  George,  that  in  Buckingham  where 
I've  been  staying  a  male  man  wanted  to  marry  me  ?  Fact. 
And  when  I  said  No-could-do  he  accused  me  of  encourag- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  329 

ing  him  and  left  the  house  the  next  day.  Such  is  human 
life  so  gliding  on.  Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  a  French- 
woman yet?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Oh,  but  they're  so  wonderful!  They  walk  like  lines  of 
poetry.  There  was  one  on  the  boat  coming  over ;  I  suppose 
my  cavalier  didn't  speak  French  very  well,  or  he'd  never 
have  looked  at  me  with  her  about.  I  don't  know  though — 
it  gives  you  a  lot  of  confidence  when  you've  been  proposed 
to.  ...  Well,  I  must  go  and  have  a  bath  and  change.  I 
only  peeped  in  to  see  you.  'Apres  le  bain,'  as  the  Salon  pic- 
tures say — be  good." 

And  with  a  nod  over  the  collar  of  her  terra-cotta  blanket- 
coat  she  had  left  me. 

Of  our  subsequent  talk  about  Derwent  Rose  I  will  speak 
presently. 

They  appeared  together  from  behind  the  green-striped 
bathing-tent.  The  wind-blown  wrap  of  escholtzia-orange 
and  the  green  turban  were  Julia's;  Jennie  wore  her  white 
towelling  gathered  closely  about  her,  and  the  yellow  cap  was 
pulled  as  low  as  her  eyebrows.  Julia  is  only  slightly  taller 
than  Jennie.  A  good  four  feet  separated  the  orange  and  the 
white  as  they  advanced  towards  me.  Julia  saw  me  and 
waved  her  hand;  Jennie  made  no  gesture.  Julia  looked 
freely  about  her ;  Jennie  gazed  straight  ahead.  The  blowing 
aside  of  Julia's  wrap  showed  a  short-skirted  bright  green 
costume  with  ribboned  sandals;  Jennie  bathed  in  her  plain 
navy-blue  "Club"  and  her  feet  were  bare.  I  rose  to  take 
their  wraps. 

Except  for  one  piece  of  advice  she  offered,  Jennie  did  not 
speak  to  Julia. 

"I  don't  think  I'd  go  beyond  the  point  there,"  she  said  as 
her  towelling  fell  to  her  feet.  "There's  rather  a  rip." 

She  ran  down  to  the  water.    Julia  turned  to  me. 

"You  all  right?"  she  asked.  "Here"— laughingly  she 
took  the  vivid  wrap  from  my  arm  and  put  it  about  my 
shoulders.  "There!  Now  you're  all  comfy.  That'll  keep 
both  you  and  it  warm  for  when  I  come  out  again." 


330  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

She  nodded  and  followed  Jennie.  Julia  Oliphant  has 
very  little  to  learn  about  walking  from  any  woman,  French 
or  not.  With  her  robe  about  me  I  sat  down  on  the  rock 
again. 

Atrociously  Jennie  was  behaving.  She  had  been  told  by 
Madge  in  plain  words  that  she  was  expected  to  bathe  with 
Julia  that  afternoon,  and  she  intended  that  Julia  should  be 
quite  aware  of  the  quality  of  her  obedience.  Even  in  her 
little  warning  about  the  rip  at  the  point  there  had  been  a 
delicately-measured  ungeniality,  and  their  attitude  as  they 
had  walked  from  the  tent  together  had  been — well,  polite. 
She  had  now  joined  the  Beverley  girls  in  the  water,  and  if 
Miss  Oliphant  cared  to  go  beyond  the  point  after  being 
warned  not  to  that  was  her  look-out.  She  did  not  fail  of  a 
single  attention  to  the  older  woman ;  but  every  time  she  va- 
cated a  chair  or  asked  Julia  whether  she  could  fetch  her 
book  she  had  the  air  of  saying  to  herself,  "There,  I  did  that 
and  mother  can't  say  I  didn't." 

And  I  suppose  it  does  make  you  a  little  cross  when  you 
are  sent  to  bathe  when  you  want  to  be  off  somewhere  on  a 
bicycle. 

Julia  Oliphant  had  not  bathed  during  that  week-end  she 
had  spent  in  my  house  in  Surrey.  It  had  been  Derry  who 
had  done  the  swimming.  But  I  fancied  it  would  have  been 
different  had  she  had  that  week-end  to  live  over  again.  She 
had  remarkably  little  to  be  ashamed  of  in  the  water.  The 
long  arm  she  threw  out  thickened,  rather  surprisingly  and 
very  beautifully,  up  to  its  pit ;  and  the  man  on  the  boat  who 
had  shown  the  solicitude  about  the  collar  of  her  blanket-coat 
had  been  quite  a  good  judge  of  necks.  Jennie's  glistening 
dark-blue  shape  seemed  still  coltish  and  nubile  by  compari- 
son with  Julia's  ampler  mould.  But  the  twenty-odd  years 
that  separated  them  were  Jennie's  stored  and  untouched 
riches,  not  Julia's.  It  was  Jennie,  not  Julia,  who  could  stay 
half  a  day  in  that  water  and  come  out  without  as  much  as 
the  numbing  of  a  finger-tip.  And  the  difference  between 
Jennie's  navy-blue  "skin"  and  that  other  smart  and  tricky 
green  was  the  difference  between  the  young  leaf-bundle  in 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  331 

its  sticky  sheath  and  the  broad  opened  palms  of  the  chestnut 
in  midsummer. 

As  I  sat  there  on  the  rocks,  forgetting  that  escholtzia- 
yellow  thing  about  my  shoulders  as  the  seniors  forget  their 
tissue-paper  caps  at  a  children's  party,  I  pondered  a  resolve 
I  had  taken.  Between  Julia  Oliphant  and  myself  there  had 
not  hitherto  been  a  single  secret  in  anything  that  concerned 
Derwent  Rose.  But  a  secret  there  must  now  be.  She  might 
find  out  about  Derry  and  Jennie  for  herself,  but  from  me 
she  should  never  hear  it.  Jennie  was  hardly  likely  to  con- 
fide in  her.  Derry  himself — who  knew? — might.  Him  she 
had  not  yet  seen. 

But  we  had  spoken  of  him,  and  almost  my  first  question 
had  been  to  ask  her  whether  she  had  been  staying  on  in 
England  in  the  expectation  of  his  return.  Her  reply  had 
been  curiously,  smilingly  nonchalant. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so;  not  altogether,  that  is.  What  does 
it  matter  whether  I  see  him  there  or  here?" 

"But  you  weren't  seeing  him,  either  there  or  here." 

"Oh,  there  wasn't  any  hurry.  It's  only  three  weeks. 
That  isn't  very  long." 

"That  depends.  Three  weeks  with  him  might  be  a  very 
long  time  indeed." 

"Oh,  but  if  that  happened  again  you'd  have  told  me,"  she 
had  said,  with  the  same  off-handedness. 

"I  might  not  have  done  so.    You  left  it  entirely  to  me." 

"Well,  no  news  is  usually  good  news.  And  I  wasn't  wast- 
ing my  time.  I  did  get  a  proposal." 

"About  that.  And  forgive  me,  because  I  don't  mean  it 
rudely.  But  is  that  a  joke?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  a  joke.  He  did  want  to  marry  me.  So  you 
see  that's  Berry's  too." 

"What  is?"  ' 

"That  is.  The  more — let's  say  desirable  I  am,  if  I  don't 
scandalise  you,  the  more  I  have  for  him.  And  anyhow  I'm 
here  now." 

"Did  you  ask  Madge  to  ask  you  ?" 

"Yes.     In  the  end  I  thought  I  would.     There  was  no 


332  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

hurry,  but  there  was  no  sense  in  positively  wasting  time. 
You  say  he's  at  St  Briac.  Where's  that?  I  don't  know 
this  coast." 

"Six  or  seven  miles.    A  tram  takes  you  all  the  way." 

"Then  we'll  look  him  up.  But  I  want  to  do  a  bit  of  shop- 
ping with  Madge  first.  Must  have  a  couple  of  hats.  I  hardly 
bought  a  single  thing  to  come  away  with." 

And  her  manner  ever  since  had  been  for  all  the  world  as 
if  something  was  inevitable,  would  come  of  itself,  in  its  own 
good  time,  whether  she  lifted  a  finger  to  further  it  or  not. 

It  may  sound  fantastic  to  you,  but  I  could  almost  have 
believed  that  when  she  had  taken  that  yellow  thing  from  her 
own  shoulders  and  had  put  it  over  mine,  she  had  invested 
me  with  something  more  than  a  garment,  something  almost 
of  herself.  I  had  seen  Jennie's  disdainful  glance  at  the 
coquetry  with  which  she  had  cast  it  about  me;  almost  in- 
solently she  had  allowed  her  own  towelling  to  drop  where 
it  would;  and  Julia  now  enveloped  me  in  a  double  sense. 
Cloak  or  no  cloak,  she  claimed  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  gaz- 
ing. For  I  and  I  only  knew  why  she  was  in  France.  Her 
errand  was  the  deadlier  the  less  haste  she  made.  I  had 
sought  to  interpose  between  him  and  Jennie  because  Jennie 
was  too  young;  could  I  now  step  between  him  and  Julia 
because  Julia  was  too  old?  Moreover,  both  women  now 
knew  his  terrific  secret.  The  exquisite  complication  I  had 
dreaded  to  entertain  was  upon  us  in  its  perfection.  What, 
between  the  three  of  them,  was  to  happen  now  ? 

For  Julia  he  was  on  his  way  For  Jennie  he  hoped  to  go 
back  to  sixteen.  forward  again. 

Julia's  influence  over  him  had  But  I  could  guess  what  calm 
been  to  rob  him  of  eleven  and  healing  had  brooded  over 
years  in  a  single  night.  him  as  he  had  stood  with 

Jennie  in  the  Tower. 

Julia  had  strangely  made  her-  Jennie  knew  nothing  of  this, 

self  his  scapegoat  and  had  and  yet  had  an  instinct  that 

left  him  lighthearted,  inno-  Julia  Oliphant  was  a  person 

cent,  free.  to  be  kept  at  arm's  length. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  333 

Julia  was  still  unaware  that  Jennie,  his  partial  confession 
apparently  his  years  had  in  the  Tower  notwithstand- 
ceased  to  ebb.  ing,  was  unaware  that  the 

matter  had  any  great  seri- 
ousness. 

Julia  had  her  knowledge  of  his  Jennie  was  in  possession  of 
former  youth.  his  present  one. 

Julia  would  walk  through  Jennie  would  do  no  less  to  keep 
flame  to  find  him.  him. 


One  drop  of  comfort  I  found  in  the  whole  extravaganza, 
and  one  only.  Jennie's  naughtiness  might  reach  extremes 
of  civility,  but  so  far  at  any  rate  Julia  was  tolerantly  good- 
humoured  about  it.  For  she  could  hardly  be  unconscious 
of  the — well,  the  bracing  temperature  of  the  atmosphere. 
But  how  long  was  that  likely  to  last?  Once  more  Derry 
seemed  to  have  us  all  entangled  in  the  web  of  his  unique 
condition.  Already  my  own  surreptitious  visits  to  him  had 
made  me  feel  little  better  than  a  slinking  conspirator;  the 
presence  of  Jennie's  bicycle  in  that  St  Briac  kitchen  did  not 
improve  matters;  and  now,  to  cap  all,  Julia  and  I  were  to 
seek  him  out. 

Again  I  found  myself  weakly  wishing  that  I  could  wash 
my  hands  of  him.  And  again  I  knew  that  I  could  not.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  nothing  to  do,  not  even  any- 
thing to  refrain  from  doing.  The  whole  thing  ran  itself. 
It  ran  itself  independently  of  any  of  us,  as  it  had  run  itself 
with  equal  smoothness  and  efficiency  whether  Julia  had 
stayed  in  England  or  had  come  over  here. 

And  I  sat  contemplating  it,  wrapped  in  her  vivid  cloak, 
wrapped  in  her  lurid  thoughts,  my  looks  alternately  seeing 
and  avoiding  her  shape  in  the  water,  while  the  sun  flashed 
on  the  grapes  and  apricots  and  oranges  of  that  fruit-salad 
in  the  waves  of  St  Enogat's  plage. 


334  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

II 

They  came  out  again,  dripping,  gleaming,  Julia  laughing, 
Jennie  without  a  smile. 

"I'll  wait  here  for  you,"  I  said  to  Julia  as  I  replaced  her 
wrap  on  her  shoulders. 

"Right  you  are.    Ten  minutes.    Come  along,  Jennie 

The  billowing  escholtzia-yellow  and  the  closely-gathered 
white  retreated  up  the  beach  again. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Julia  returned  alone.  She  sat 
down  by  my  side. 

"Jennie  wouldn't  come.  She's  taken  the  things  in. 
George,"  she  suddenly  demanded,  "is  that  child  in  love  ?" 

I  parried.  "Is  that  a  thing  I  should  be  very  likely  to 
know?" 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  She  is.  All  the  signs — every  one. 
She  can't  sit  still  in  one  place  for  five  minutes.  Poor  little 
darling!"  she  smiled.  "I  remember  so  well.  .  .  ." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  you  were  to  take  a  walk  after 
your  bathe?" 

"What  about  you?  Sure  it  wouldn't  be  too  much  for 
you?" 

"I  should  like  a  walk." 

"Come  along  then.  I  suppose  I  did  stay  in  as  long  as  was 
good  for  me." 

A  steep  stone  staircase  descends  between  the  villas,  in  the 
chinks  of  which  hawkweed  and  poppies  and  pimpernel  have 
seeded  themselves.  At  the  top  of  it  a  winding  lane  leads  to 
the  church,  and  from  this  there  branches  off  the  Port  Blanc 
road.  In  that  direction  we  walked,  and  in  ten  minutes  were 
among  cornfields  and  hedges,  clumps  of  elms  and  coppices 
of  oak.  Ploughs  and  chain-harrows  lay  by  the  footpaths, 
and  the  sea  might  have  been  a  hundred  miles  away. 

"Sure  you're  not  overdoing  it?"  she  asked  as  we  took  a 
little  path  under  a  convolvulus-starred  hedge. 

"Quite  all  right,  thanks." 

"Oh,  smell  the  air!  This  is  a  jolly  place!  Which  way 
is  St  Briac  from  here  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  335 

"Over  that  way." 

The  dark  eyes  sent  a  message.  "Well,  now  tell  me  what 
his  painting's  like.  I  expect  it's  as  wonderful  as  his  writing 
was." 

"It  rather  struck  me — I  don't  know  much  about  it — but 
I  fancied  it  was  on  somewhat  similar  lines." 

"What  sort  of  lines?" 

"The  old  story — starting  anew  from  the  very  beginning 
of  everything — nothing  to  do  with  anything  else,  past,  pres- 
ent or  to  come." 

"Of  course  he  would  be  the  same.  .  .  .  But  now  tell  me 
— we've  hardly  had  ten  words  yet,  what  with  Madge  and 
shopping  and  your  silly  illness  and  one  thing  and  another. 
You  say  he's  got  to  twenty  ?" 

"Thereabouts." 

"And  he  hasn't  moved  since — you  know  what  I  mean  ?" 

"That  isn't  quite  clear." 

"What  isn't  there  clear  about  it?" 

"He  thinks  he's  moving — he  hopes  to  move — forward 
again." 

She  stopped  to  stare  at  me.  Already  the  few  days'  sun 
had  softly  browned  her  natural  milky  pallor. 

"He  what!"  she  gasped.  .  .  .  "But  that's  wilder  than  all 
the  rest  put  together !" 

"It's  what  he  thinks.  There's  simply  his  word  for 
it.  He  can't  explain  it.  But  he's  staking  everything  on 
it." 

"Everything?    What?" 

"His  future  course,  I  suppose,  whatever  that  is.  By  the 
way,  has  Madge  said  anything  to  you  about  him  ?" 

She  stared  harder  than  ever.  "Madge!  Does  Madge 
know  him?" 

"She  doesn't  know  Derry.  But  she  knows  Arnaud.  He's 
been  to  the  house." 

"He's  been  ,  .  .  Oh-h-h-h !" 

You  may  call  me  if  you  will  the  most  dunderheaded  fel- 
low who  ever  meddled  in  things  he  did  not  understand.  I 
deserve  it  all  and  more.  All  the  same  I  must  ask  you  to 


336  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

believe  me  when  I  say  that  it  was  not  until  that  "Oh-h-h-h !" 
broke  in  an  interminable  contralto  whisper  from  her  lips 
that  I  saw  what  I  had  done.  I  had  resolved  that  not  one 
word  of  Jennie  Aird's  affairs  should  she  learn  from  me. 
As  much  for  her  own  sake  as  for  Jennie's  I  had  determined 
to  spare  her  that. 

And  now  I  had  gone  and  told  her  that  very  thing ! 

For  the  knowledge  of  it  leaped  full-blown  out  of  that 
long  record  of  her  own  heart.  Jennie  was  in  love ;  Arnaud 
had  been  to  Ker  Annie;  therefore — she  knew  it,  she  knew 
it — Jennie  was  in  love  with  Derry.  How  should  anybody, 
seeing  him  as  Julia  Oliphant  had  seen  him  at  his  former 
twenty,  not  fall  in  love  with  him?  Young,  sunbrowned, 
beautiful,  grave — only  to  see  him,  only  to  have  him  at  the 
house  for  tea,  was  to  be  in  love  with  him  during  the  whole 
of  the  remaining  days.  Who  knew  this  if  Julia  Oliphant 
did  not?  Jennie  thenceforward  would  love  him  as  she  her- 
self had  loved  him  through  the  unbroken  past.  And  if  he 
thought  his  turning-point  had  now  come,  forward  into  the 
future  again  he  and  Jennie  would  go  together. 

That  and  nothing  else  was  what  I  had  told  her. 

"Oh-h-h-h!"  she  said  again.  "I  see!"  And  yet  once 
more,  "Oh-h-h-h !  I  see!" 

And,  losing  my  head  once,  in  that  very  same  moment  a 
wilder  thing  still  rose  up  in  my  heart  to  crown  it  with  folly. 
I  forgot  that  between  Julia  Oliphant  and  myself  there  could 
never  be  any  question  of  love.  Little  difference  it  made 
that  I  now  loved  her,  knew  now  that  I  had  long  loved  her. 
For  me  she  could  never  care.  Yet  I  forgot  that.  It  seemed 
to  me  in  that  overwrought  moment  that  if  Derry  really  was 
right,  and  on  the  point  of  living  normally  forward  again,  in 
one  way  the  field  of  the  future  could  be  left  to  him  and  to 
Jennie  Aird.  Julia  and  I  together  could  leave  it  to  them. 
She  in  my  arms  (I  was  distracted  enough  to  think),  Jennie 
in  his,  would  at  least  cut  the  knot  it  passed  our  wits  to  untie. 
In  any  case  Derry  would  never  again  look  at  Julia  Oliphant. 
He  never  had  looked  at  her.  But  I  looked  and  found  her 
desirable,  as  other  men  had  found  her  desirable.  And  why 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  337 

should  not  I  too  have  whatever  of  good  the  remaining  years 
could  give  me  ? 

So,  under  that  convolvulus-starred  hedge,  with  that  sweet 
air  in  our  nostrils  and  the  whispering  of  the  corn  in  our 
ears,  I  asked  Julia  Oliphant  to  marry  me. 

Before  coming  out  she  had  picked  up  and  put  on  her  head 
one  of  Alec's  panamas.  For  the  rest  she  wore  a  sort  of 
rough  creamy  crape,  with  a  wide-open  collar,  elbow-length 
sleeves,  a  cord  round  her  waist,  grey  silk  stockings  and 
suede  shoes.  Little  wisps  of  her  dark  hair  were  still  damp 
from  her  bathe,  and  her  skirt  was  dusted  with  particles  of 
mica  from  the  sands.  Since  uttering  that  "Oh-h-h-h !"  she 
had  not  moved. 

"I  see,"  she  said  again.    "I  see." 

"Then,  Julia " 

"Oh,  I  see!  I  ought  to  have  known  the  very  first  mo- 
ment I" 

"Then " 

She  turned  towards  me,  but  only  for  an  instant.  Then 
she  looked  away  again.  "What  were  you  saying?"  she 
asked. 

"Very  humbly,  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  Julia." 

"Queer,"  she  murmured. 

"Is  it  so  very  queer  ?" 

She  gave  a  tremulous  little  laugh.  "The  way  everything 
happens  at  once,  I  mean.  Get  yourself  proposed  to  once 
and  you  go  on.  I  shall  know  quite  a  lot  about  it  soon.  .  .  . 
I  say,  George " 

"What,  Julia?" 

"How  long  ago  was  that — when  he  came  to  the  house,  I 
mean  ?" 

"About  ten  days  ago." 

"And  you  there!  What  nerve!  Did  he  let  himself  be 
introduced  to  you,  or  what?" 

"He  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  me.  In  fact  he  car- 
ried everything  off  very  competently." 

"Carried  everything  off  .  .  ."  she  repeated,  looking  away 
over  the  corn.  "And  has  he  been  since  then?" 


338  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"We  had  tea  with  him  in  his  garden  one  afternoon." 

"One  afternoon  .  .  ."  she  murmured  again.  "How  does 
Jennie  spend  most  of  her  time?" 

"I've  been  laid  up  in  bed." 

"Of  course,"  she  nodded.  Apparently  she  passed  it  as  a 
good  man's  answer,  as  men's  answers  go. 

But  my  own  question  she  did  not  appear  to  dream  of  an- 
swering. Except  to  compare  it  with  another  man's  similar 
question  she  might  not  have  heard  it.  Nor  had  I  asked 
that  question  only  as  the  solution  of  an  otherwise  insoluble 
problem.  Happy  I,  could  I  have  taken  her  into  my  arms 
there  and  then.  So  I  waited,  my  eyes  in  the  shadow  of  her 
panama,  while  she  continued  to  look  far  away. 

Then,  "I  see,"  she  said  yet  once  more.  "Of  course  I 
ought  to  have  known  in  the  tent." 

"In  the  tent?" 

"The  bathing-tent.  She  could  hardly  bear  to  share  it 
with  me.  But  she  let  me  have  the  little  stool,  and  untied  a 
knot  for  me,  and  carried  my  wet  things  home." 

"Madge  Aird's  daughter  wouldn't  behave  altogether  too 
unlike  a  lady." 

"Madge  Aird's  daughter's  a  woman,"  she  replied. 

Then  her  whole  tone  changed.    She  confronted  me. 

"That  that  you've  just  been  saying  is  all  nonsense,  of 
course,"  she  said  abruptly.  "You  know  it  is.  What  hap- 
pened in  July  puts  that  out  of  the  question  once  for  all. 
How  can  you  possibly  ask  that  woman  to  marry  you  ?" 

"I  have  asked  her." 

"She  isn't  her  own  to  marry  anybody.  And  I  don't  see 
how  Derry  can  marry  anybody  either.  What's  he  going  to 
do — forge  papers,  or  impersonate  somebody?  .  .  .  No, 
George;  my  way  was  the  only  way — take  what  you  can 
while  you  can." 

"Marry  me,  come  right  away,  and  have  done  with  it." 

She  gave  me  a  slow  sidelong  look. 

"Is  that  the  idea — just  a  way  out  for  everybody?" 

"Don't  think  it.  I  didn't  begin  to  love  you  this  after- 
noon." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  339 

"Proposals  pour  in — once  they  start !"  she  admired.  "Oh, 
how  little  we  know  when  we're  young,  and  how  much 
when  it's  too  late  to  make  any  difference !" 

"Julia,"  I  said  abruptly,  "what  do  you  intend  to  do  about 
him?" 

She  smiled,  but  without  speaking. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  him  ?" 

"That's  a  silly  question.    Of  course  I  am." 

"Is  it  wise?" 

"I'm  not  wise.  I  suppose  I  should  be  Lady  Coverham  if 
I  were  wise." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Jennie  ?" 

"Oh,  I  shan't  fly  out  at  her." 

"Marry  me  and  come  away." 

She  shook  her  head.  "That's  the  one  thing  I  am  sure 
about." 

"Then  don't  marry  me,  "but  come  back  to  England." 

"And  leave  the  field  clear?  I  see  that  too.  Of  course 
you  want  to  give  her  to  him." 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I've  striven  to  prevent  it!" 

Her  hand  touched  my  sleeve  for  a  moment.  "Poor  old 
George — always  trying  to  prevent  somebody  from  doing 
something!  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  that's  some- 
times the  way  to  bring  it  about  ?"  Then,  imperiously,  "Has 
he  told  you  he's  in  love  with  her  ?" 

"If  he  is  in  love  with  her,  and  has  no  eyes  for  any  other 
woman  living,  and  never  will  have,  will  you  marry  me 
then?" 

"Oh,  we  had  all  that  years  ago.  Has  he  told  you  he's  in 
love  with  her?" 

"Since  you  must  know,  he  has." 

"Now  we're  getting  at  it.  I  thought  you'd  something  up 
your  sleeve.  Now  just  one  more  question.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  whether  he's  told  her  that  ?" 

You  see  what  I  was  in  her  hands.  She  cut  clean  through 
my  web  of  speculations  as  scissors  go  through  cloth.  I  had 
resolved  to  tell  her  this,  not  to  tell  her  that.  The  end  of  it 
was  that  I  told  her  precisely  what  she  wished  to  know. 


340  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"I've  reason  for  thinking  he  hasn't,"  I  said.  "For  one 
thing,  he  made  me  a  promise." 

But  she  flicked  his  promise  aside  as  she  flicked  the  con- 
volvulus with  her  nail.  She  laughed  a  little. 

"Anyway  I  don't  suppose  he  has  the  least  idea  what's  the 
matter  with  him.  He  never  did  know  anything  about 
women." 

But  ah,  Julia  Oliphant,  whatever  mistakes  you  made  in 
your  life,  you  never  made  a  greater  one  than  that !  Me  you 
might  turn  this  way  and  that  round  your  finger,  but  here 
was  something  beyond  your  knowledge  and  control.  I 
knew  what  you  did  not  know.  I  knew  what  had  happened 
by  those  softly-illumined  cars,  by  that  earth-wall  at  Le  Port 
gap,  and  that  other  night  when  Frehel  had  bidden  the 
Crucifix  move  and  come  to  life.  It  was  not  now  he  who 
knew  nothing  about  women,  but  you  who  knew  nothing 
about  him.  I  grant  you  all  your  other  Tightness;  I  grant 
you  that  I  had  drifted  and  bungled  as  men  do  drift  and 
bungle  in  these  things ;  but  here  I  was  right  and  you  hope- 
lessly and  irretrievably  wrong.  He  did  know  about 
women.  Books  he  had  flung  aside,  pictures  he  would  fling 
aside,  for  these  were  but  the  dust  out  of  which  that  loveliest 
flower  bloomed.  He  did  know  about  women,  and  all  the 
beauty  of  his  strange  destiny  had  now  swung  over  to  Jennie. 
He  had  passed  with  her  into  the  Tower  of  Oblivion,  and 
Julia  and  I  and  the  rest  of  the  world  for  him  and  her  were 
not. 

The  Tower  of  Oblivion!  It  was  his  own  name  for  it. 
Jennie  had  not  understood  him ;  the  name  had  merely 
sounded  sweet  to  her  because  it  was  his ;  but  what  apter 
emblem  of  his  own  life?  To  find  this  new  and  smiling  love 
in  the  place  so  hauntingly  whispering  with  memories  of  the 
old !  There,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  busyness  of  life,  with 
a  threshing-gin  droning  and  the  lad's  whip  cracking  among 
the  walking  horses  and  man's  simple  bread  making  as  it  was 
made  in  the  beginning,  he  had  shut  himself  in  with  her  and 
the  blue  heaven  overhead.  They  had  not  kissed,  but — only 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  341 

to  be  there  with  her,  only  to  be  rid  of  the  lie  he  lived  to  the 
rest  of  the  world  and  to  be  all  truth  to  her !  ...  Julia  Oli- 
phant  would  but  bruise  her  heart  against  the  stones  of  that 
Tower,  thrice-strong  outside  but  impregnably  strong  within. 
God  or  gland,  it  vanquished  us  all.  He  had  found  what  he 
had  so  long  sought,  and  the  sooner  Julia  became  Lady 
Coverham  the  better. 

I  forget  the  precise  words  in  which  I  reminded  Miss  Oli- 
phant  that  I  was  still  waiting  for  her  answer.  She  turned 
on  me  with  eyes  that  so  kindled  that  for  a  moment  I  thought 
she  had  reconsidered  it. 

"George,  tell  me  one  thing.  Do  you  really  believe  it — 
that  his  clock's  really  set  forward  again?" 

I  answered  slowly.  "I  don't  know.  I  won't  say  that  I 
don't.  Sometimes  I  almost  have  believed  it.  One  has  his 
word  for  the  age  he  feels,  and  there's  nothing  else  to  go  by. 
After  all,  going  forward  seems  somehow  more  natural  than 
going  back.  I've  no  other  grounds  for  my  belief." 

Somehow  my  words  had  not  in  the  least  the  effect  I  in- 
tended. Everything  I  said  or  did  seemed  to  work  contrary 
to  my  intention.  I  saw  her  making  a  swift  mental  calcula- 
tion. She  was  a  woman  to  be  desired — very  thoroughly  she 
had  made  it  her  business  to  be  so.  If  I  wanted  her,  if  other 
men  wanted  her,  so  (I  read  her  thought)  might  he  be  made 
to  want  her.  What  stood  in  her  way  ?  A  chit  of  seventeen 
in  turkey-towelling!  What  was  a  trifle  like  that  to  daunt 
a  ripe  woman  who  knew  coquetries  with  escholtzia-yellow 
bathing-wraps?  If  it  only  lasted  a  year  .  .  .  six  months 
.  .  .  the  rest  of  the  summer  .  .  .  the  rest  of  the  summer 
of  her  life.  .  .  . 

"Young  and  beautiful,"  she  said  softly  with  a  quickening 
of  her  breath.  "I  remember — I  remember " 

"Then  forget.    He'll  never  look  at  you." 

"Ah,  he  thought  that  once  before " 

"You  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  ruin  last  July- 


"You  say  he's  young  and  beautiful — that's  what  I  brought 
him  to — youth  and  beauty " 


342  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Unless  he  goes  forward  now — if  he  begins  to  slip  back 
again — you  know  what  he  said  his  climacteric  was — six- 
teen  

She  threw  up  the  white-panama'd  head  on  the  long  throat. 
My  eyes  dropped  before  hers,  my  question  was  blown  to 
the  winds  that  set  the  corn  a-rustling.  I  told  you  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  story  that  I  had  never  married. 

"And  how,"  she  said  proudly,  "if  he  had  it  in  my  arms  ?" 


Ill 

Whether  Madge  and  Julia  were  friends  because  of,  or  in 
spite  of,  the  differences  in  their  nature,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
say.  In  the  situation  now  in  course  of  development  at  Ker 
Annie,  however,  they  struck  me  as  not  so  much  different  as 
opposite.  Madge's  bark  is  always  infinitely  more  terrifying 
than  her  bite;  but  the  more  mischief  Julia  meditated  the 
stiller  she  always  became,  except  for  a  little  dancing  play 
deep-drowned  in  her  eyes.  She  had  risk-taking  eyes,  and 
the  expression  in  them,  if  you  looked  at  her  as  if  you  won- 
dered whether  she  had  counted  the  cost,  was  one  of  de- 
tached surprise  that  you  should  pause  to  weigh  chances  with 
the  gorgeous  adventure  plain  before  you. 

And  what  a  risk  she  now  contemplated,  certainly  for  him, 
perhaps  more  for  herself!  What  the  penalty  of  failure — 
or  of  success — might  be  to  herself  I  cannot  tell  you,  since 
I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  speculating  about  what  responsi- 
bilities ladies  incur  who  love  a  man  all  their  lives,  grow  up 
alongside  him  as  a  "jolly  good  sort,"  violently  assail  him 
when  he  clings  as  it  were  to  a  loop  amid  the  dizzy  curves 
of  his  life's  track,  and  then,  when  he  comes  to  rest  and 
again  begins  slowly  to  revolve  on  the  turn-table  at  the  ter- 
minus, put  out  their  hands  to  the  lever  once  more.  What 
she  had  taken  from  him,  what  she  had  given  him  in  return, 
were  mysteries  beyond  me.  I  merely  realised  that,  if  she 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  343 

undertook  this  in  the  spirit  of  adventure,  it  was  adventure 
on  a  well-nigh  apocalyptic  scale. 

But  what  about  him  ?  For  him  it  was  not  a  question,  as  it 
was  for  her,  of  a  few  weeks'  madness  and  then  a  folding  of 
the  hands,  the  Nunc  Dimittis  and  darkness.  She  would 
merely  be  putting  the  seal  on  a  life  that  already  anticipated 
its  close;  but  he  would  be  asked  to  cut  one  off  in  the  very 
moment  of  its  re-flowering.  He  saw  ahead  of  him  that 
boon  for  which  humanity  has  cried  out  ever  since  another 
woman  gave  her  man  the  Knowledge  in  the  Garden.  "Ah, 
might  I  live  again  knowing  what  I  know  now!"  .  .  .  Si 
jeunesse  savait,  si  vieillesse  pouvait!  .  .  .  He  did  know, 
he  was  able;  and  Julia  Oliphant,  discovering  that  she  had 
done  all  for  Jennie  Aird,  now  sought  to  take  it  back  again. 
For  should  ruin  supervene,  it  would  be  Jennie,  not  Julia, 
who  would  now  be  robbed  and  wronged.  I  could  hardly 
look  at  Julia,  standing  there  by  the  hedge,  without  re-living 
those  anguished  moments  in  which  I  had  ascended  his  stairs 
and  knocked  at  his  door,  hardly  daring  to  hope  for  an 
answer.  He  knew  not  that  ultimately  it  was  from  Julia  that 
he  now  had  this  manna  and  honey,  this  healing  oil  and  wine. 
He  only  knew  that  he  received  them  at  Jennie's  hands,  and 
with  this  soft  nourishment  he  had  victualled  his  Tower. 

So  what  disaster  might  not  befall  if  Julia  were  to  intro- 
duce that  yeasty  fermenting  element  of  herself  all  over 


again 


Slowly  we  returned  together  across  the  cornfields,  I  and 
the  woman  who  had  hardly  deigned  to  refuse  me.  Since 
our  final  rapid  exchange,  that  had  ended  with  her  demand 
"How  if  he  had  it  in  my  arms  ?"  not  a  word  had  passed  be- 
tween us.  In  that  one  insolent  sentence  she  had  not  merely 
put  my  pretensions  out  of  existence :  she  had  made  them  as 
if  they  had  never  been.  That  they  could  never  be  again  I 
knew  only  too  well.  Therefore,  in  silence  we  passed  under 
the  shadow  of  St  Enogat  Church,  crossed  the  little  space 
opposite  the  Cafe  de  la  Mer,  and  entered  the  winding  lanes 
to  Ker  Annie. 


344  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

At  the  gate  of  the  villa  Madge  met  us  with  a  peremptory 
question. 

"Where's  Jennie?     Isn't  she  with  you?"  she  demanded. 
She  gave  a  quick  glance  behind  her  as  she  spoke. 
Obviously  she  wasn't.     Madge  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
again. 

"Then  don't  for  goodness  sake  say  she  hasn't  been. 
Alec's  stamping  up  and  down  the  garden — says  she's  been 
seen  with  young  Arnaud  somewhere  at  the  back  of  beyond 
on  a  bicycle.  I  sent  her  to  bathe  with  you,  Julia." 

"She  did,"  said  Julia  quickly. 

"Then  just  tell  him  that  and  say  she  must  have  gone  into 
town  or  something.  I  know  she  has  been  back,  because  I 
looked  into  her  room  and  saw  her  half -dried  costume.  You 
quieten  Alec  down,  George.  Have  you  had  tea?" 

But  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  placate  Alec,  I  found  the  fat 
badly  in  the  fire  at  Ker  Annie.  Alec  raged  up  and  down 
the  pergola  as  if  he  had  been  caged  within  it. 

"Exactly  what  I  said  would  happen  !  I  knew  it  all  along !" 
he  stormed.  "Noble  saw  'em — no  mistake  possible,  he  says 
— pedalling  all  over  Brittany  with  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry. 
.  .  .  Where  did  she  get  that  bicycle?  I  haven't  seen  any 
bicycle  about  here !  First  I've  heard  of  a  bicycle !" 

"Simmer  down,  Alec.  There's  no  great  harm  in  a  bicycle 
ride  after  all." 

"If  she's  been  for  one  she's  been  for  a  dozen  for  all  I 
know.  She  was  sent  off  to  bathe." 

"Well,  she  did  bathe." 

"Were  you  there?  Did  you  see  her?"  he  challenged  me, 
now  suspicious  at  every  point. 

"Yes.    She  bathed  with  Julia.    I  waited  for  them." 

"You  waited  for  Julia,  you  mean.  Nipped  in  and  out  so 
as  to  be  able  to  say  she'd  been  and  then  dashed  off  with  this 
fellow,  I  suppose.  Look  here,  he  appears  to  be  a  protege 
of  yours,  but  I  want  to  know  more  about  him  before  there's 
any  more  of  this.  What  does  he  go  about  in  that  rig  for? 
Why  does  he  talk  French  like  that?"  (This  last  headed  the 
list  of  his  offences  in  Alec's  eyes.)  "There's  something 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  345 

fishy  about  the  whole  thing.  Jennie  sees  him  sketching, 
evidently  doesn't  know  any  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon 
who  he  is,  and  goes  up  to  him  and  speaks  to  him  in  French 
and  he  answers  in  English !  Then  he  says  he's  a  level-time 
man,  but  touched  in  the  bellows.  He's  about  as  much 
touched  in  the  bellows  as  I  am!  .  .  .  Who  is  he?  Did  he 
really  stay  with  you  ?  How  did  you  get  to  know  him  ?" 

"He  did  stay  with  me.  He's  perfectly  straight.  Don't 
make  such  a  fuss." 

"Well,  I  expect  Jennie's  as  much  to  blame  as  he  is.  They 
generally  are.  If  I've  told  Madge  once  .  .  .  anyway  it's 
got  to  stop.  Of  course  if  he's  a  friend  of  yours  that's  an- 
other matter,  but  gadding  about  all  over  the  place  has  got  to 
stop.  Is  she  back  yet?  I  want  to  see  her  when  she  does 
come  in." 

And  so  on.  I  left  him  in  his  cage,  angrily  knocking  out 
his  pipe  against  the  lattice. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  Alec  was  so  very  much  righter 
than  he  knew.  I  had  ventured  to  assure  him  that  our  young 
French-speaker  was  perfectly  straight,  and  you  know  how 
far  that  was  true.  In  the  wider  sense  who  was  crookeder, 
whose  life  more  devious  ?  Not  one  straight  step  did  his  cir- 
cumstances permit  him  to  take.  Why,  the  only  satisfactory 
way  he  had  been  able  to  hit  on  to  provide  himself  with 
money  had  been  his  fantastic  idea  of  fighting  Georges  Car- 
pentier,  the  simplest  way  he  had  found  of  crossing  the 
Channel  had  been  to  swim  it !  Straight  ?  Too  straight  alto- 
gether. The  world  is  not  accustomed  to  people  so  straight 
that  they  go  straight  plumb  into  the  heart  of  things  like 
that.  .  .  .  And,  merely  as  straightness,  how  was  he  now  to 
acquire  even  an  ordinary  identity?  Had  he  been  anybody, 
had  he  in  the  past  once  possessed  an  identity  he  was  able 
to  acknowledge,  ways  might  have  been  found.  He  would 
then  have  had  a  starting  point.  He  might  have  invested 
himself  with  a  name  and  place  in  the  world  by  means  of 
the  French  equivalent  of  a  deed  poll.  He  might  have  got 
himself  cited  by  name  in  a  civil  court,  have  snatched  a  social 
existence  even  out  of  the  formalities  of  registration  atten- 


346  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

dant  on  a  State  Lottery.  But  not  one  of  these  ways  was 
open  to  him.  Nothing  short  of  an  act  of  creation  could 
establish  him.  Nothing  comes  out  of  nothing,  nothing  can 
be  made  out  of  nothing.  Stronger  even  than  that  Tower 
of  stone  is  this  other  invisible  Tower  in  which  we  all  live, 
each  stone  an  ego,  its  mortar  the  whole  complicated  every- 
day nexus  of  the  social  fabric.  All  that  he  was  able  to  do 
was  to  make  assertion  that  he  was  Arnaud,  and  let  us  take 
it  or  leave  it  at  that.  How  Alec  would  take  it  there  was  very 
little  doubt. 

Nor  was  there  much  doubt  in  Madge's  case  either.  She 
might  talk  family  histories  and  hidden  scandals  till  the  cows 
came  home,  but,  in  the  end,  the  Airds'  would  be  the  last 
household  into  which  any  suitor  would  penetrate  without 
the  strictest  investigation.  Derry  might  palm  off  his  Som- 
erset Trehernes  upon  us  during  a  casual  tea-hour,  but  Alec 
would  now  dive  into  the  last  pigeon-hole  in  Somerset  House 
but  he  would  know  exactly  who  it  was  who  aspired  to  be-1 
come  his  son-in-law. 

Jennie  appeared  at  about  half-past  six,  and  Alec's  first 
demand  was  to  be  told  where  that  bicycle  was. 

"What  bicycle?"  she  asked. 

"Haven't  you  come  home  on  a  bicycle?" 

"No,  I  came  home  by  the  tram,  father." 

"Where  from?" 

"From  St  Briac." 

"Haven't  you  been  out  with  that  fellow  on  a  bicycle,  or 
has  a  mistake  been  made?" 

The  game  was  up.    "I  did  go  for  a  bicycle  ride." 

"With  that  fellow  Arnaud?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"You  went  immediately  after  your  bathe?" 

"Yes." 

"Where's  the  bicycle  now  ?" 

"I  left  it  at  St  Briac." 

"Wherein  St  Briac?" 

"At  his  hotel,  where  mother  and  Uncle  George  and  I  went 
that  day." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  347 

"Where  did  the  bicycle  come  from?" 

"I  hired  it,  father." 

"In  St  Briac?" 

"No,  in  Dinard." 

"And  you  keep  it  in  St  Briac  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  there  instead  of  here  ?" 

No  reply. 

"Why  in  St  Briac  instead  of  here?" 

Still  no  reply. 

"How  often  have  you  been  for  these  rides?" 

"About  eight  or  ten  times,  father." 

"Did  mother  know  about  it?" 

"No,  father." 

"Then  that  means  that  you've  been  practically  every  day 
for  a  fortnight  ?" 

No  reply. 

"Very  well,  Jennie.    Now  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

Enough.  You  see  the  style  of  it.  Alec  is  an  affec- 
tionate father,  but,  his  grumbling  indulgence  to  Madge 
notwithstanding,  there  are  no  two  ways  about  his  being 
master  in  his  own  house.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that  a  maid 
was  to  be  sent  to  fetch  that  bicycle  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  back  it  was  to  go  to  the  shop  where  it  had  come 
from.  Further,  if  Jennie  wished  to  see  this  M.  Arnaud 
again,  it  must  only  be  by  express  permission  from  himself. 
There  was  plenty  of  amusement  at  the  Tennis  Club  among 
young  fellows  they  knew  something  about,  and — not  another 
word.  It  ought  never  to  have  begun,  but  anyway  it  was 
done  with  now  and  need  not  be  referred  to  again.  She  had 
better  go  and  have  some  tea  if  she  hadn't  had  any,  and  as 
for  the  dansant  to-morrow  afternoon,  if  she  wanted  a  new 
frock  for  it  she  might  have  one.  Now  run  along,  and  don't 
be  late  for  dinner. 

Of  the  five  of  us,  Alec  was  easily  the  most  cheerful  at 
that  evening's  meal.  His  duty  done — kindly,  he  hoped,  but 
anyway  done — he  talked  about  anything  but  that  afternoon's 
unpleasantness.  Then,  rather  to  my  surprise,  about  half- 


348  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

way  through  dinner  Julia  began  to  second  his  efforts.  We 
sat  round  the  Ganymede,  two  men  and  three  women,  Alec 
between  Julia  and  his  wife,  Jennie  between  Madge  and  my- 
self. Everybody,  Alec  included,  was  kindness  itself  to  the 
silent  child,  and  the  dansant  was  talked  of.  The  Beverleys 
were  giving  it.  They  had  engaged  a  room  at  one  of  the 
hotels,  and  Madge  had  been  helping  to  decorate  that  after- 
noon. 

"Those  were  the  Beverley  girls  bathing  with  us  this  after- 
noon, weren't  they,  Jennie  ?"  Julia  asked  across  me. 

"Yes." 

"Aren't  they  just  a  little— stand-offish  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  notice.  Are  they?"  said  Jennie 
dully. 

"They're "  Alec  began,  but  checked  himself.  In  the 

circumstances  the  upbringing  of  the  Beverley  girls  was  not 
the  happiest  of  subjects,  and  Madge  struck  hastily  in. 

"One  gets  almost  sick  of  the  hydrangeas  here,  Julia,  but 
they're  really  most  extraordinarily  effective.  We've  put 
four  great  tubs  of  them,  ice-blue  almost,  in  the  corners,  as 
big  as  this  table  nearly,  and  against  all  that  cream-and-gold. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Jennie!  You  know  father  says  you  can  have 
whichever  of  those  frocks  you  like.  I  should  say  the  voile. 
Which  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  care  which,  mother.  My  last  one's  all  right.  I 
don't  want  another." 

Again  across  the  table  from  Julia:  "That's  a  darling  one 
you're  wearing  now !" 

"Do  you  like  it,  Aunt  Julia?" 

"Sweet!" 

"And  oh,  Julia,"  suddenly  in  a  little  outburst  from  Madge, 
"honestly,  now !  Do  you  think  I  could  wear  those  sleeves, 
or  those  not-any-sleeves-at-all  rather — you  know — the  quite 
new  ones,  that  show  your  arm  from  the  very  top  of  your 
shoulder?  You  must,  of  course,  with  your  arms — it's  your 
duty — but  I'm  not  so  sure  about  me : 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,  of  course  you  can.  And  I'm  cer- 
tainly going  to,"  Julia  declared. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  349 

"Bit  French,  aren't  they?"  said  Alec  over  his  canape. 
"I've  seen  'em." 

"He's  seen  'em,  Julia!"  Madge  laughed.  "Don't  tell  me 
after  that  that  a  man  doesn't  notice  what  a  woman  has  on 
— at  any  rate  if  there's  as  little  of  it  as  there  is  of  those 
sleeves!  But  let's  settle  Jennie's  frock  first.  I  think  the 
voile.  And  you  can  wear  a  hat  with  it  or  not,  just  as  you 
like." 

"Would  you  very  much  mind  if  I  didn't  go,  mother?"  said 
Jennie  dejectedly. 

"Frightfully,"  was  Madge's  cheerful  reply.  "Of  course 
you're  coming.  And  all  to-morrow  morning  we'll  try-on, 
all  three  of  us.  So  that's  the  voile  for  Jennie — and  most 
decidedly  those  no-sleeves  for  you,  Julia,  with  your 
arms " 


IV 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  the  same:  slightly  false, 
slightly  tremulous,  a  little  off  the  note.  I  honestly  believe 
that  that  "Aunt"  Julia  of  Jennie's  was  a  pure  inadvertence, 
for  she  was  far  too  low-spirited  to  be  interested  in  anything 
but  herself,  her  mood  and  her  troubles.  After  dinner  she 
went  out  into  the  garden  alone,  and  Madge  gave  us  a  quick 
inclusive  look. 

"Don't  worry  her,  poor  darling,"  she  said  with  soft  sym- 
pathy. "Let  her  have  a  good  cry  and  she'll  be  all  right  to- 
morrow." 

"Let  me  go  to  her,"  said  Julia. 

"I  really  wouldn't." 

"Very  well  if  you  think  not.    What  about  a  rubber?" 

So  Alec  and  Julia  took  fifteen  shillings  from  Madge  and 
myself  while  Jennie  got  over  it  in  the  garden. 

But  I  found  difficulty  in  understanding  Julia's  new  atti- 
tude towards  Jennie.  There  had  been  nothing  in  the  least 
degree  hypocritical  in  her  sweetness  at  dinner ;  quite  simply 


350  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

she  had  been  nice  and  gentle  with  her.  She  had  even  inter- 
posed very  quickly  indeed  when,  for  a  brief  moment,  there 
had  seemed  a  doubt  as  to  whether  Jennie  had  bathed  that 
afternoon  at  all.  But  that  she  would  hold  unswervingly  to 
her  private  purpose  I  was  entirely  convinced.  Was  her 
confidence,  then,  so  insolently  fixed  that  she  had  pity  left 
over  and  to  spare  for  this  unhappy  child  who  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  forbidden  to  leave  the  house  without 
permission?  Could  she  toss  her  an  alms  out  of  her  super- 
fluity ?  Would  her  gentleness  have  been  quite  the  same  had 
she  not  known  that  that  bicycle  was  being  fetched  back  from 
St  Briac  to-morrow  ?  Or  would  she,  had  Madge  not  stopped 
her,  have  gone  to  Jennie  in  the  garden  with  some  such  words 
as  these :  "Cheer  up,  Jennie ;  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about 
this  in  ten  days.  When  I  was  your  age  I  had  these  fancies, 
but  I  forgot  all  about  them  in  ten  days.  You'll  be  in  love 
with  scores  of  young  men  yet ;  nobody  ever  remembers  any 
of  them  for  long.  Why,  I've  forgotten  the  very  name  of 
the  boy  I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  when  I  was  a  girl.  I 
can't  even  remember  what  he  looked  like.  It  seems  hard 
for  the  moment,  but  it's  over  in  no  time.  Cheer  up,  Jennie. 
There  are  lots  of  nice  boys  at  the  Tennis  Club.  Go  and  flirt 
with  one  of  them,  and  forget  about  M.  Arnaud.  We  all  do." 

Would  she  have  said  something  like  that  ?  She  was  fully 
capable  of  it.  At  any  rate  I  am  fully  capable  of  thinking 
she  was. 

But,  whatever  the  circumstances  may  be,  a  man  can 
hardly  ask  a  woman  to  be  his  wife  in  the  afternoon,  have 
his  suit  treated  as  if  it  had  scarcely  been  heard,  and  finish 
the  evening  with  Auction  as  contentedly  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  Even  poor  George  Coverham  has  his  private 
affairs,  and  it  was  I  more  than  any  of  them  who  should  have 
found  myself  by  Jennie's  side.  Indeed,  as  Alec  and  Julia 
divided  their  winnings  I  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  It 
was  dark,  but  not  too  dark  to  distinguish  that  she  was  still 
there,  a  dim  white  figure  leaning  up  against  one  of  the  pillars 
of  the  pergola.  A  half-moon  had  southed,  and  the  iron- 
work of  the  roof-ridge  of  Ker  Annie  showed  sharp  against 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  351 

the  silvery  blueness  as  I  stepped  out.  It  had  suddenly  come 
upon  me  that  if  she  needed  my  comfort,  I  needed  hers 
hardly  less.  She  was  seventeen  and  I  fifty,  but  that  day 
had  separated  both  of  us  from  our  desires. 

She  heard  my  step,  but  did  not  change  her  position. 
Anyway  she  had  had  a  full  hour  to  herself.  It  was  she  who 
spoke,  and  without  preface. 

"I  wished  you'd  come,"  she  said. 

"We've  been  playing  bridge." 

"I  very  nearly  didn't  come  home  at  all." 

"Why,  Jennie?" 

"I  knew  I  was  going  to  catch  it.  Old  Noble  needn't  think 
he's  the  only  person  with  any  eyes.  I  saw  him  too.  I  pre- 
tended not  to,  but  I  did." 

"I  was  afraid  it  was  only  a  question  of  time,"  I  said  with 
a  head-shake.  "Where  was  it?" 

"The  rottenest  luck!"  she  answered  softly  and  bitterly. 
"Nobody  but  that  horrid  old  man  on  his  motor-bike  would 
have  thought  of  going  there !  Right  up  a  little  lane,  it  was, 
and  we'd  put  our  bicycles  under  the  hedge,  and  we  were 
sitting  against  one  of  the  stocks.  That  dark  red  stuff  what- 
ever they  call  it — six  bundles  together  and  then  another  like 
an  umbrella  on  the  top.  He  barged  into  one  of  the  bicycles, 
clumsy  thing,  and  then  came  to  tell  us  that  we  oughtn't  to 
leave  them  there  in  people's  way.  Derry  shoved  me  behind 
the  stook,  but  it  was  too  late.  I  did  think  he  might  just  pos- 
sibly have  the  decency  to  keep  his  mouth  shut,  but  I  suppose 
that  was  too  much  to  expect.  So  I  knew  there'd  be  a  row." 

"And  of  course  Derry  knew  there'd  be  a  row  too  ?" 

"Yes." 

I  sighed.  "Well,  the  row's  over  now.  Better  let  the 
whole  thing  drop.  Your  father's  perfectly  right,  and  you 
were  bound  to  get  found  out  sooner  or  later." 

She  made  no  reply. 

But  she  returned  to  her  luckless  plaint  a  moment  later. 
She  struck  the  upright  of  the  pergola  softly  and  vindictively 
with  her  hand. 

"It  was  all  that  beastly  bathe  and  Miss  Oliphant's  being 


352  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

late !  We  should  have  been  all  right  if  she'd  been  there  at 
the  proper  time !" 

"I'm  afraid  that  was  my  fault,  Jennie.  I  walked  rather 
slowly,  and  Miss  Oliphant  waited  for  me." 

"I  know;  of  course  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  you  at  all. 
.  .  .  Then  she  goes  and  gets  her  things  into  knots,  and  1 
have  to  untie  them,  and  that  costume  of  hers  is  as  bad  as 
getting  into  a  ball-dress  instead  of  just  a  skin  like  nearly 
everybody  else!  Anyway  the  sea's  there  if  she  wants  to 
bathe,  and  she  can  swim  as  well  as  I  can  if  she  does  get  into 
a  current,  and  it  isn't  as  if  she  needed  a  chaperone " 

"Jennie,  my  dear,  be  reasonable!"  I  begged  her.  "You 
can  hardly  blame  Miss  Oliphant  for — for  what  your  father 
was  told." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  her !  But  it  makes  you  angry  when 
stupid  little  accidents  like  those —  She  swallowed. 

"I'm  afraid  stupid  little  accidents  fill  rather  a  large  place 
in  the  world,  Jennie." 

"I  hate  them  having  anything  to  do  with  me  anyhow.  And 
with  having  to  take  the  towels  home  I  only  just  caught  the 
tram— 

"What's  that?"  I  took  her  up.  "You  did  catch  the  tram? 
Then  it  wasn't  that  that  made  you  late  at  all.  You'd  have 
been  waiting  for  the  tram  if  you  hadn't  been  waiting  for 
Miss  Oliphant." 

"Well,  I  don't  care.  It's  all— all- 
She  did  not  say  what,  but  hit  the  pergola  with  her  hand 
again. 

I  was  too  sorry  for  her  to  be  hurt  by  her  words  about 
Julia.  That  little  slip  about  the  tram  had  completely  be- 
trayed her,  and  it  was  against  chance,  and  not  against  Julia, 
that  she  sought  an  occasion.  Nevertheless  the  merciless  mis- 
trust of  youth  lay  behind.  The  beginning  and  end  of  it  was 
that  she  didn't  like  Julia,  and  her  young  heart  had  not  yet 
learned  the  duplicity  that  makes  us  more  rather  than  less 
sweet  to  those  whom  we  dislike.  She  broke  out  again  : 

"And  I  won't  go  to  that  dance  to-morrow !  I  won't  be 
scolded  and  given  a  new  frock  and  told  I  mustn't  go  out  of 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  353 

the  house !  Mother  and  Miss  Oliphant  can  go  without  me, 
and  when  I  get  back  to  London  I  shall  earn  my  own  living 
and  I  shall  be  able  to  do  what  I  like  then !" 

"Very  few  people  who  earn  their  own  living  do  what  they 
like,  Jennie." 

"Well,  it'll  be  a  change  anyway,"  she  retorted. 

A  cheerful  call  of  "Jen-nie-e-e !"  came  from  the  house. 
We  all  used  a  marked  brightness  in  speaking  to  Jennie  that 
evening. 

"Yes,  mother — I'm  only  with  Uncle  George." 

"Don't  be  long,  darling." 

"I'll  bring  her  in  presently,"  I  answered  for  her ;  and  we 
continued  to  stand  side  by  side. 

I  suppose  that  ordinarily  a  man  of  my  years  would  keep 
such  a  dismissal  as  I  had  received  that  afternoon  locked 
in  his  own  breast,  or  would  at  any  rate  hesitate  before  shar- 
ing it  with  a  young  girl.  And  I  did  hesitate.  But  trouble 
is  mysteriously  lightened  when  it  is  merged  in  another 
trouble,  and  to  cheer  Jennie  up  was  the  aim  of  all  of  us 
that  night.  And  I  think  that  perhaps  the  Jennie  I  wanted 
to  tell  was  Jennie  the  woman,  not  Jennie  the  child. 

So  "Jennie,"  I  said  quietly,  "you're  not  the  only  one." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I've  had  my  medicine  too  this  afternoon." 

"Your  medicine?" 

"Oh,"  I  took  myself  up,  "not  that  kind  of  medicine.  I 
mean  that  you're  not  the  only  one  who's  had  to  go  through 
it  this  afternoon." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Uncle  George." 

"While  you  went  for  a  bicycle  ride  I  went  for  a  walk  with 
somebody  else." 

"You  went  for  a  walk  with  Miss  Oliphant,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Yes.  And  I  asked  her  not  to  remain  Miss  Oliphant  any 
longer." 

I  felt  the  eager  uprush  of  her  solicitude.  "Oh,  Uncle 
George!  Do  you  mean  you  asked  Miss  Oliphant  to  marry 
you?" 

"Yes." 


354  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"So  you're  engaged?"    The  words  jumped  from  her. 

"No." 

"Hasn't  she  decided  yet?" 

"Yes,  she's  decided." 

"What!"  A  deep,  deep  breath.  "You  don't  mean  that 
she  said  No?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  did." 

"Oh!" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  my  waist  and  held  me  strongly. 

"Oh !    Poor  Uncle  George !" 

"So  you  see  we're  in  the  cart  together,  Jennie.  I  thought 
I'd  tell  you.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  tell  anybody  else." 

And  I  knew  that  I  could  not  have  told  her  three  weeks 
before.  That  is  how  we  with  our  belated  loves  strike  the 
young — we  of  the  Valley  of  Bones.  Nevertheless  my 
mother's  embrace  had  been  hardly  more  maternal  than  was 
the  pressure  of  those  seventeen-year-old  arms  that  night. 

Then,  with  another  "Poor,  poor  Uncle  George!"  she  re- 
leased me.  Her  next  words  broke  from  her  with  a  vivid 
little  jump. 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  her  now !" 

"Jennie,  Jennie!  You  can't  hate  anybody  I've  just  told 
you  that  about !" 

"Oh,  I  can !  Worse  than  ever !  To  think  of  her  cheek  in 
refusing  you!  She  ought  to  have  been  proud — instead  of 
playing  cards  all  the  evening!" 

"Playing  cards  isn't  a  bad  thing  to  do.  I  played  cards 
too." 

"Pretty  poor  look-out  for  her  if  she's  in  love  with  some- 
body else  anyway!"  she  commented. 

"By  no  means,  Jennie.  Other  people  than  I  are  in  love 
with  her.  But  what  I  want  to  ask  you  is  whether  you  can't 
be  nice  to  her  for  my  sake." 

"I'll  do  anything  I  can,"  she  said  bitterly.  "If  you  say 
she  was  awfully  kind  and  gentle  to  you  about  it  that  might 
help  a  bit." 

"Then  let  me  say  it.    She  was  awfully  kind  and  gentle." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  355 

"And  so  she  ought  to  be !  But  is  she  in  love  with  some- 
body else,  then?" 

"I  think  she  doesn't  want  to  get  married." 

"I  don't  believe  that!"  declared  Jennie  flatly.  "Why,  she 
thinks  about  nothing  but  clothes  and  who's  watching  her 
and  if  she's  looking  all  right!" 

"Is  that  being  kind  to  her,  Jennie  ?" 

"No  it  isn't,  and  I  will  try,  but  I  didn't  like  her  before, 
and  I'm  only  trying  now  because  of  you.  Why  did  she  ask 
mother  if  she  might  come  here,  especially  if  she  knew  you 
were  in  love  with  her  and  you  were  here  ?" 

"I  hadn't  told  her  I  was  in  love  with  her." 

"Don't  tell  me  she  didn't  know,  for  all  that,"  was  the 
unbelieving  reply. 

"Well,  well.  .  .  .  There  it  is  and  we  must  make  the  best 
of  it.  You  try  to  make  the  best  of  things  too,  my  dear. 
Shall  we  go  in?" 

Whether  I  had  done  Julia  any  great  service  in  Jennie's 
opinion  was  doubtful.  I  had  at  any  rate  given  Jennie  some- 
thing else  to  think  of.  And  that  was  something. 

Contrary  to  my  expectations,  I  slept  immediately  and 
deeply  that  night.  It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  be- 
fore I  awoke,  half-past  when  I  descended.  I  found  Madge 
in  the  salon. 

"I  say,  what's  become  of  Julia?"  she  asked.  "Though 
I  don't  see  how  you  could  very  well  know  seeing  you've 
only  just  this  moment  come  down." 

A  maid  was  clearing  away  the  petit  dejeuner. 

"Madam,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it,  Ellen?" 

"Miss  Oliphant  left  word  she'd  be  back  at  half-past 
eleven." 

"Has  she  gone  out?    But  we  were  to  go  into  Dinard  this 


morning 


"She's  gone  to  St  Briac,  madam,  and  she  said  as  she  was 
going  to  see  somebody  at  the  Golf  Club  she  might  as  well 
save  one  of  us  a  journey  and  bring  a  bicycle  back.  It 


356  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

wasn't  exactly  your  orders,  madam,  but  there's  a  deal  to  do 
this  morning  what  with  this  dance,  and  as  Miss  Oliphant  was 
so  kind  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  except  that  it  doesn't  leave  us  much 
time  for  shopping.  I  shall  go  into  Dinard,  and  you'd  better 
tell  Miss  Oliphant  to  follow  me  when  she  comes  back." 

"Very  good,  madam." 

"Anyway,"  said  Madge,  turning  to  me,  "it  certainly  does 
save  one  of  the  maids  a  couple  of  hours,  as  long  as  Julia 
doesn't  mind.  But  who  has  she  gone  to  see  at  the  Golf  Club 
at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning?" 


V 

The  dances  of  my  time  were  the  waltz,  the  cotillion  and 
the  quadrille,  and  as  I  am  not  a  Pelmanist  I  have  never 
acquired  the  dancing- fashions  of  to-day.  So  I  stood  by 
one  of  Madge's  tubs  of  hydrangeas  and  watched.  The 
large  cream-and-gold  room  had  a  glazed  end  that  opened 
on  to  the  terrace  and  overlooked  the  crowded  plage  be- 
low, and  when  I  wearied  of  watching  the  dancers  I  walked 
out  on  to  this  terrace,  and  when  I  was  tired  of  watching  the 
people  who  moved  in  and  out  among  the  tents  and  umbrellas 
and  deck-chairs  on  the  beach  I  returned  to  the  dancing-room 
again.  And  much  of  the  time  I  moved  about  out  of  sheer 
restlessness  and  apprehension. 

Jennie  had  come  to  the  Beverleys'  party  after  all.  She 
danced  occasionally  with  young  Rugby  or  young  Marlbor- 
ough,  but  kept  more  often  close  to  her  mother's  side.  And 
Julia  Oliphant  was  there,  not  dancing  at  all,  talking  to 
Madge  only  infrequently,  but  gaily  enough  to  everybody  else 
—with  the  single  exception  of  myself,  whom  (it  seemed  to 
me)  she  avoided  in  the  most  marked  fashion.  As  for  the 
others,  they  danced  in  flannels  and  blazers  and  varnished 
evening  shoes,  and  the  Beverley  girls  danced  with  one  an- 
other. 

What  had  happened  at  St  Briac  that  morning?     The  ques- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  357 

tion  gave  me  no  rest.  Had  Julia  seen  Derry  ?  Idle  to  ask ; 
of  course  she  had.  What  had  passed  between  them?  Use- 
less to  try  to  guess.  I  had  glanced  at  the  Indicateur.  She 
had  caught  the  tram  at  St  Enogat  at  eight-thirty-four  and 
had  taken  the  ten-fifty-three  back,  reaching  St  Enogat  again 
at  eleven-nineteen.  Actually  she  had  had  two  hours  of 
but  seven  minutes  at  St  Briac,  and  that  was  all  I  knew. 
Again  she  had  seized  her  chance  with  ruthless  instancy. 
Except  for  a  night's  rest,  the  very  moment  Jennie  had  been 
out  of  the  running  she  had  been  at  the  door  of  his  hotel. 
She  had  even  had  the  effrontery  to  use  Jennie's  own  bicycle 
as  her  pretext. 

And  now  why,  when  I  was  in  the  dancing-room,  did  she 
seek  the  terrace,  and  why,  when  I  went  out  on  the  terrace, 
did  she  immediately  enter  the  dancing-room  again? 

She  wore  the  sleeveless  frock;  and  "Oh  Juno,  white- 
armed  Queen!"  I  had  murmured  to  myself  when  my  eyes 
had  rested  on  it.  ...  But,  whatever  her  other  attempts  had 
been,  those  arms  at  any  rate  he  had  not  seen  that  morning, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  frock  had  only  been  pur- 
chased and  hastily  made  ready  on  her  return.  But  its  pur- 
chase was  not  to  be  dissociated  from  him.  With  him  and 
him  only  in  her  mind  she  had  chosen  it.  What  other  plans 
had  she  in  her  mind?  Was  she  now  going  to  get  a  bicycle 
— she,  whom  it  was  impossible  to  forbid  to  see  whom,  she 
pleased  and  whenever  she  pleased  ?  Would  she  go  with  him 
to  that  dove-haunted  Tower,  recline  with  him  among  the 
sarrasin-stooks  with  none  to  say  her  nay?  And  would  her 
hosts  see  as  little  of  her  at  Ker  Annie  as  I  had  seen  of  Jen- 
nie during  the  days  I  had  spent  in  bed  ? 

Dire  woman — dire,  and  capable  de  tout! 

But  even  my  preoccupation  did  not  quite  blind  me  to  the 
prettiness  of  the  scene  about  me.  Whether  inside  or  out 
was  the  prettier  I  will  not  say.  They  had  improvised  tennis 
on  the  beach,  and  from  the  tall  diving-stage  forty  yards  out 
lithe  figures  poised,  inclined,  and  dropped  gracefully  down- 
wards in  the  swallow-dive.  The  brightly-clad  melee  almost 
hid  the  dowdy  sands.  Back  in  the  dancing-room  the  tall 


358  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

cream  pilasters  with  the  gold  capitals  supported  the  sweep- 
ing oval  of  the  ceiling,  painted  with  Olympian  loves;  and 
bright  hair,  bright  faces,  light  ankles,  passed  and  interpassed 
before  the  eye  could  catch  more  than  a  blended  impression 
of  the  total  charm.  The  band  was  playing  that  which  these 
bands  do  play,  the  fiddler  on  the  little  rostrum  alternately 
conducting  and  using  his  bow,  and 

And  this  time  I  really  thought  I  had  Julia  pinned  down. 
Madge  was  on  one  side  of  her,  talking  with  animation,  and 
Jennie  stood  on  her  other  side.  Yes,  I  thought  I  had  her 
cornered.  She  could  hardly  break  away  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  her  hostess's  sentences.  I  advanced. 

But  she  deftly  eluded  me.  Madge  had  turned  with  an 
"Oh,  here  he  is!"  and  in  that  moment  Julia  held  out  both 
her  hands  to  Jennie. 

"Come  along,  Jennie,"  she  said,  "if  those  Beverley  girls 
can  dance  together  we  can." 

But  I  will  swear  that  it  was  only  because  of  her  promise 
to  me  the  night  before,  that  Jennie  allowed  herself  to  be  led 
away. 

I  watched  them  as  they  stood  balanced,  bodies  close  to- 
gether, foot  alternating  with  foot.  Jennie  never  once  looked 
at  Julia,  but  Julia's  dark  eyes  smiled  from  time  to  time  on 
Jennie's  face.  And  present  with  them  in  some  strange  way, 
hauntingly  about  and  between  them,  he — he — seemed  to  be 
there :  young,  sunbrowned,  and  beautiful  as  he  had  formerly 
been,  young,  sunbrowned  and  beautiful  as  he  was  to-day. 
A  quartette  seemed  to  be  rhythmically  balancing  there,  one 
of  her,  one  of  her,  two  of  him. 

Then,  seeing  my  look,  Julia  frankly  smiled  at  me  for  the 
first  time. 

Jennie  also  saw  me,  but  did  not  smile.  She  would  dance 
with  Julia  for  me,  but  she  would  not  pretend  to  smile  over 

it. 

Twice,  thrice  round  the  room  they  moved,  the  woman  who 
had  refused  me  yesterday  and  would  not  be  denied  him  to- 
morrow, the  girl  who  had  glowed  with  angry  compassion 
for  me  and  knew  in  her  feminine  heart  that  that  smiling 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  359 

partner  had  not  offered  to  fetch  a  bicycle  from  St,  Briac 
that  morning  without  having  a  reason  for  it.  ... 

"A  penny  for  them,  George,"  Madge's  voice  suddenly 
sounded  at  my  side. 

"Eh  ?     I  was  only  thinking  of  those  two." 

"Julia  and  Jennie?  I'm  glad  Jennie's  come  round  and 
is  behaving  with  something  like  ordinary  decency  again. 
.  .  .  And  by  the  way,  that  about  that  bicycle  of  Jennie's  is  a 
funnier  mix-up  than  ever  now." 

"How  so?" 

"Well,  Julia  saw  young  Arnaud  this  morning.  Rather  a 
difficult  position  for  her,  and  I  can't  imagine  why  she  of- 
fered to  go,  seeing  she'd  never  set  eyes  on  the  young  man 
in  her  life.  But  she  seems  to  have  done  the  best  thing 
possible." 

"What  was  that?" 

"She  never  once  mentioned  Jennie's  name.  She  simply 
said  that  she  understood  that  a  bicycle  was  to  be  fetched 
back  to  Ker  Annie,  and  as  she  was  coming  out  that  way 
she'd  said  she'd  call  for  it.  It  seems  to  have  been  quite  all 
right.  He  didn't  ask  any  questions  either ;  he  got  it  out  and 
put  it  on  the  tram  for  her  himself." 

"The  same  tram?  She  came  straight  back?"  (I  may 
say  that  there  is  only  one  tram  to  St  Briac,  which  runs  back- 
wards and  forwards). 

"No,  the  next  journey.  It  had  gone,  so  she  had  to  wait. 
She  tried  to  ride  the  bicycle,  but  couldn't  quite  manage  it. 
So  he  showed  her  his  pictures,  as  he  did  to  us." 

"Before  she  went  to  the  Golf  Club,  or  after?" 

"She  didn't  say." 

"And  he  didn't  even  ask  why  the  bicycle  had  been  sent 
for?" 

"Not  a  word  about  it.     He  just  put  it  on  the  tram." 

I  can't  say  I  much  liked  the  look  of  this.  I  remembered 
how  he  had  formerly  bamboozled  me. 

"Then  he  simply  accepts  the  situation  ?"  I  said. 

"Whatever  it  is,  apparently." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 


360  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Well,  that's  the  funny  part.  What  is  the  situation?  You 
see,  Arnaud's  knowing  you  complicates  it.  If  he  hadn't 
known  you  I  expect  Alec  would  have  sent  him  about  his 
business  at  the  double.  Not  that  you're  to  blame  in  any 
way ;  it's  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  you.  But  then  is  Jennie 
to  blame  either  for  falling  in  love  with  the  delicious  creature  ? 
I  told  Alec  so.  Oh,  we  had  a  lively  hour  yesterday  while 
you  and  Julia  were  out  bathing  and  walking  and  enjoying 
yourselves !  Alec  blustered,  and  he  wouldn't  have  this  and 
he  wouldn't  have  that,  but  I  asked  him,  'Where  was  the 
harm  if  the  young  man  came  round  in  a  straightforward 
way  and  took  his  chance  with  the  others?'  'I  don't  call  this 
straightforward,'  he  said ;  and  of  course  I  could  hardly  say 
it  was,  but  we've  all  been  young  once.  Anyway,  the  long 
and  the  short  of  it  was  that  there's  to  be  no  more  bicycle- 
riding,  but  he  hasn't  forbidden  her  to  see  him  provided 
everything's  above-board  and  we're  told  about  it." 

"Was  that  a  concession  for  my  sake?" 

"It's  for  Jennie's  sake.  It's  her  happiness  I'm  thinking 
about.  You've  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Except  to  provide  his  credentials,"  I  thought,  but  said 
nothing. 

I  begin  to  like  it  less  and  less.  Not  one  single  thing  about 
it  did  I  like.  Julia  was  supposed  not  to  know  this  Arnaud, 
but  that  had  not  prevented  her  from  thrusting  herself  into 
his  affairs  and  lying  unblushingly  about  an  appointment  at 
the  Golf  Club  seven  miles  away  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  if  Madge  thought  that  Julia  and  Jennie  were  "be- 
having with  ordinary  decency"  at  that  moment,  so  did  not 
I.  As  for  Derry,  .honestly  I  was  afraid  of  him.  He  had 
had  a  whole  night  in  which  to  think  over  the  almost  certain 
consequences  of  that  surprise  among  the  sarrasin  stocks,  and 
if  he  was  caught  without  a  plan  he  was  not  the  man  I 
took  him  for.  Julia  might  think  she  had  scored  during 
that  hour  and  a  half  when  he  had  shown  her  his  pictures, 
but  the  change  was  just  as  likely  to  be  in  his  pocket.  Probably 
he  had  expected  that  that  bicycle  would  be  sent  for  before 
the  day  was  many  hours  old.  The  only  thing  he  could  not 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  361 

have  expected  was  that  Julia  Oliphant  would  come  in  per- 
son for  it. 

Then  the  dance  ended,  and  Julia,  as  barefaced  as  she  was 
barearmed,  came  straight  up  to  me,  wide-smiling,  daring. 

"Well,  George!     Good  morning!     Enjoying  yourself  ?" 

"Hadn't  Derry  a  nerve !"  she  had  said  to  me  when  I  had 
told  her  about  the  tea-party  at  Ker  Annie.  I  don't  think 
his  nerve  surpassed  her  own.  I  looked  straight  at  her. 

"Since  it's  good  morning,  come  for  a  turn,"  I  said. 

Still  smiling  all  over  her  face,  she  placed  a  resplendent  arm 
on  mine,  and  we  passed  out  on  to  the  terrace. 

She  wore  an  immense  white  hat,  so  cavalierly  dragged 
down  on  one  side  and  so  arrogantly  jutting  up  on  the  other 
that  from  certain  points  you  had  to  walk  half  way  round 
her  before  you  saw  her  face  at  all.  One  eye  lurked  perma- 
nently within  the  recess  of  that  outrageous  brim.  She  had 
also  done  something  to  her  lips. 

There  were  little  round  tables  on  the  terrace,  and  at  one 
of  these  we  sat  down,  vis-a-vis.  She  placed  the  backs  of  her 
clasped  hands  under  her  chin  and  sat  there,  magnetising  me. 

"Well,  how  goes  it?"  she  said. 

"I  hear,"  I  said,  "that  you're  learning  to  ride  a  bicycle." 

"No,  George." 

"What's  that?" 

"Not  a  bicycle.  Only  a  free-wheel.  I  rode  a  bicycle 
years  ago.  It's  only  the  free-wheel  that's  a  bit  tricky." 

"You  saw  him?" 

"Of  course.     Didn't  Madge  tell  you  ?" 

"And  he  knew  you  ?" 

"My  dear  George,  do  pull  yourself  together !  He  was  ex- 
pecting me !" 

"What!     By  appointment?" 

"No,  no,  no,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  didn't  write  or  send  him 
a  telegram  or  anything  of  that  kind.  But,  of  course,  he 
knew  I  was  here.  He  knew  days  ago — before  I  came  prob- 
ably. What  would  be  the  first  thing  Jennie'd  tell  him  ?  That 
they  were  expecting  a  visitor,  but  it  needn't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  their  meetings.  So  of  course  he  was  expecting 


362  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

me.  Perhaps  not  quite  so  early  in  the  morning,  but  oh, 
quite  soon!" 

"What  I  meant  was,  did  he  recognise  you  ?" 

"Recognise  me?  Why  not?  He  called  me  Miss  Oliphant 
and  showed  me  his  sketches.  They're" — the  eye  I  could 
see  sparkled,  taking  in  the  whole  bright  terrace — "they're 
glorious !" 

"What  about  the  bicycle?" 

"Glo — rious !  He's  a  divine  painter !  Why,  his  books 
are  like  sawdust  after  his  painting!  I  don't  paint  worth  a 
rap  myself,  but  oh,  I  know  celestial  stuff  when  I  see  it !" 

"What  did  he  say  about  the  bicycle?" 

"I  didn't  go  there  to  talk  about  bicycles.  I  went  there  to 
see  his  glorious  pictures  and  his  glorious  self !" 

"And  incidentally  to  meet  an  apocryphal  person  at  the 
Golf  Club." 

"Pooh !"  She  took  that  in  her  stride.  "But  about  those 
pictures " 

"Leave  the  pictures  for  a  moment.  Why  have  you  avoid- 
ed me  the  whole  afternoon  until  you  came  up  a  moment  ago 
and  said  good  morning?" 

"Surely  you  can  guess  that?"  Again  the  fascination  of 
the  smile. 

"Guessing's  lost  some  of  its  novelty  for  me  lately." 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  dance  with  Jennie,  you  see." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  see." 

She  looked  at  me  quizzically,  reflectively.  "N — o.  Per- 
haps it  isn't  as  simple  as  I  thought.  But  you  were  glad 
when  I  danced  with  Jennie,  weren't  you?" 

"I  won't  say  glad.     I  was — very  interested." 

"Why?" 

"You  two — and  him.     That  interested  me  enormously." 

"Well,  now  you've  very  nearly  got  it.  That  dance  was 
our  understanding,  Jennie's  and  mine.  We  had  it  all  out." 

"You  didn't  appear  to  be  talking  much." 

"I  don't  think  we  spoke  three  words,  but  we  had  it  out 
for  all  that." 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing  I  give  up." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  363 

"Make  an  effort,  George.  You  don't  think  I'd  do  any- 
thing unfair,  do  you  ?  As  long  as  there  was  a  fair  way  left, 
I  mean  ?" 

"I  don't  even  know  what  you  mean  by  fair." 

"Well,  you're  on  her  side,  whether  you  know  it  or  not. 
It  took  me  exactly  one  tenth  of  a  second  to  see  that  yester- 
day. You  want  him  to  get  going  straight  ahead  again  and 
marry  her.  Don't  you  ?"  she  challenged  me  with  a  brilliant 
look. 

"Never  mind  my  answer  for  the  present." 

"Well,  you  want  that,  and  I  want — something  quite  dif- 
ferent." 

"Jennie  doesn't  even  know  that  you  know  him." 

"What?  How  do  you  know  what  he's  told  her  about  me? 
Anyway,  even  if  he  hasn't,  she  knows  I  didn't  fetch  that 
bicycle  for  nothing.  She  smelt  something  in  the  wind,  and 
now  she  knows  perfectly  well  what  it  is.' 

"From  that  dance?     Wonderful  dance!" 

"It's  your  sex  that's  wonderful.  If  you  don't  believe  me, 
ask  her." 

"I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary.  There's  just  one  thing 
you've  forgotten." 

"What's  that?" 

"Him." 

"Oh,  I've  forgotten  him!"  she  smiled,  touching  the  red- 
dened lips  with  her  fingertips. 

"Him  and  what  he  may  do.  I  think  you'll  find  you've 
left  that  out  of  the  account.  We  shall  see.  ...  So  I  take 
it  you  dodged  me  all  the  afternoon  because  we  hadn't  all 
been  properly  introduced  to  the  new  situation,  so  to  speak? 
Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  quite  good.  There's  no  stealing  advantages 
now.  Everything's  on  the  square,  and  what  sort  of  a  ver- 
mouth do  they  give  you  here?" 

With  that  I  asked  her  a  question  that  for  the  moment 
surprised  even  her.  I  asked  it  perfectly  seriously,  seeking 
not  only  the  unblinkered  eye,  but  also  the  one  within  its 
deep  ambush  of  white  hat-brim. 


364  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Julia,  are  you  yourself  in  every  respect  the  same  woman 
to-day  that  you  were  before  we  had  our  talk  yesterday  ?" 

She  turned  her  head  to  watch  the  tennis-players  on  the 
sands  below,  the  swallow-divers  from  the  tall  stage.  She 
turned  it  further,  and  her  gaze  passed  from  the  clustered 
villas  across  the  bay  to  the  awnings  of  the  hotel,  the  sunny 
white  of  the  balustrade,  the  waiter  who  approached  in  an- 
swer to  my  summons.  Then  she  looked  at  me. 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  Not  just  this  hat  and  a  touch 
of  lipstick  and  these" — she  showed  her  arms.  "I'm  the 
same,  of  course,  but  I  suppose  I'm  different  too.  And  I'm 
going  to  be  different.  Ask  Jennie.  She  knows.  Any 
woman  would  know — just  by  dancing  with  somebody  and 
never  saying  a  word,  George.  One  keeps  one's  eyes  open 
and — adapts  oneself.  Jennie  knows  all  about  it.  Ask  her." 

And  the  flashing,  daring,  confident  smile,  which  had  van- 
ished for  a  moment,  reappeared. 

It  was  her  request  for  a  vermouth  that  had  prompted 
my  sudden  question.  All  at  once  I  had  found  myself  won- 
dering who  the  man  was,  in  Buckinghamshire  apparently, 
who  shared  with  myself  the  privilege  of  having  been  refused 
by  her.  Not  that  I  was  interested  in  his  identity ;  but  from 
him,  or  from  the  man  who  had  been  attentive  to  her  on 
the  boat,  or  from  somebody  else,  or  from  a  whole  series  of 
men  for  all  I  knew,  she  had — the  slang  is  required — "picked 
up  a  thing  or  two."  It  was  a  far  cry  from  that  first  cock- 
tail in  the  Piccadilly  to  this  hat,  this  revelation  of  arms, 
these  conscious  coquetries  with  bathing-wraps  and  auction 
with  Alec  Aird.  Mind  you,  I  knew  as  surely  as  I  sat  oppo- 
site to  her  that  not  one  of  these  fellow-unfortunates  of  mine 
had  had  a  scrap  more  from  her  than  I  had  had  myself. 
They  had  been  dismissed  without  compunction  the  moment 
she  had  had  what  she  required  of  them.  On  Derry  and  on 
Derry  alone  her  dark  eyes  were  unchangingly  set.  No 
trifling,  no  flirtation  by  the  way,  any  more  than  to  the  re- 
hearsal is  given  the  unstinted  kiss  of  the  passionate  perform- 
ance. Therefore  in  this  she  was  single  and  unchanged. 

But  she  had  seen  Derry  that  morning,  and  that  excited 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  365 

bombardment  of  electrons  that  seemed  to  emanate  from  him 
and  to  alter  the  nature  of  everyone  who  came  into  contact 
with  him  had  worked  an  alteration  in  her.  She  might  call 
it  "adapting  herself,"  but  it  was  essentially  more  than  that. 
For  she  had  seen  Jennie  too,  knew  of  their  love,  and  had 
instantly  re-assembled  and  re-marshalled  all  the  forces  at 
her  disposal.  Whatever  might  be  her  broadside  of  hat,  arms 
and  the  rest,  swiftly  and  craftily  she  had  seen  that  there 
was  one  thing  she  could  not  ape — the  simplicity  of  seven- 
teen. Contest  on  that  ground  meant  defeat  in  advance.  In 
this,  its  vivid  opposite,  lay  her  desperate  chance. 

And,  I  thought  with  apprehension,  no  negligible  chance 
either !  For  a  man  may  be  young  and  innocent  and  grave 
and  be  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  this  very  simplicity  and  trust. 
It  is  the  woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  but  not  too  old 
to  have  this  shot  left  in  her  locker,  who  bowls  him  over. 
Lucky  for  him  if  a  more  contemporaneous  passion  already 
occupies  his  heart. 


VI 

"So,"  she  said,  her  eyes  far  away,  "there  are  those  won- 
derful pictures." 

Yes,  she  would  not  hesitate  to  make  capital  out  of  his 
pictures  too. 

"The  mere  handling,  quite  apart  from  anything  else " 

There  again  she  had  Jennie  on  the  hip.  Jennie  might  love 
his  pictures  merely  because  they  were  his,  but  Julia  painted, 
knew  the  technicalities,  would  make  intimacies,  opportuni- 
ties, flattering  occasions  out  of  them 

"There's  one,  just  a  few  bits  of  broken  white  ruins  with 
her  lying  there — he  wasn't  going  to  show  me  that  at 
first " 

But  ah,  her  eyes  had  spied  it  out,  and  he  had  had  to  show 
it. 

"You've  seen  them,  George.  Now  I  ask  you,  could  any 
boy  of  eighteen  possibly  have  painted  them?" 


366  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

That  too  she  had  the  audacity  to  claim — that  he  was 
eighteen  when  she  wanted  him  to  be  eighteen  and  forty- 
five  when  she  wanted  him  to  be  forty-five.  Here  again  Jen- 
nie Aird  was  to  be  put  in  the  wrong.  It  was  to  be  an  ana- 
chronism and  monstrous  that  Jennie  should  love  so  widely 
out  of  her  age. 

"Could  he,  I  ask  you  ?  Doesn't  it  show  ?  You  were  per- 
fectly right  when  you  tried  to  stop  that  flirtation  between 
those  two,  George,  and  you're  absolutely  wrong  in  wanting 
it  to  go  on  now.  She's  no  right  whatever,  and  neither  has 
he.  Leave  it  to  me.  He  called  me  Miss  Oliphant,  but  it 
can  be  Julia  in  five  minutes,  and  anything  else  I  like  in 
ten- 

I  did  not  choose  to  remind  her  again  that  she  was  leaving 
him  out  of  the  calculation.  I  had  warned  her  once,  and  it 
comforted  me  to  think  that  he  was  not  quite  so  unarmed  as 
she  supposed  against  this  sort  of  spiritual  rape.  .  .  .  She 
went  musingly  on. 

'"Miss  Oliphant!'  .  .  .  But  wait  a  bit.  It  was  myself 
and  Daphne  Wade  for  it  before,  and  then  it  was  all  senti- 
mental association  and  stained-glass  and  church-music  and 
because  he  was  wrapped  in  dreams.  Sentiment's  all  very  well 
in  its  way,  George,  but  give  me  Get-up-and-get.  That's  the 
cock  to  fight.  Daphne  euchred  me  once : 

"Where  did  you  get  these  expressions?"  I  asked  her 
calmly. 

" and  she  didn't  get  him  either.  He  never  knew  the 

first  thing  about  women.  So  here  we  are,  with  the  situation 
an  exact  repetition  of  what  it  was  before." 

"With  Jennie  playing  Daphne's  part?" 

"For  him.  Why  not?  If  he's  the  same  again  he's  the 
same  again,  isn't  he?  But  oh,  when  I  saw  him  this  morn- 
ing !  ...  It  was  exciting  and  terrific !  You've  looked  at  a 
photograph-album  you  haven't  seen  for  years,  I  expect,  but 
the  things  didn't  move  about  and  talk  to  you  and  ask  you 
how  you  were  and  show  you  their  pictures — 

I  couldn't  help  a  light  shiver.     Certainly  this  woman  might 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  367 

claim  that  she  had  lived  through  an  extraordinary  cycle  of 
experience. 

"So  he's  the  same,  and  the  same  thing  will  happen  all  over 
again — except  for  what  /  do,"  she  added  wickedly. 

"And  that  will  be?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  pursed  her  mouth. 

"No,  no.  I  won't  marry  you,  George,  but  I  will  be  your 
friend.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that.  You  must  wait.  I 
see  how  difficult  your  position  is,  and  it  will  be  much,  much 
better  if  you're  able  to  say  afterwards  that  you  didn't  know 
anything  at  all  about  it." 

"Isn't  it  already  a  little  late  to  say  that?" 

"Well,  least  said's  soonest  mended  anyway.  Got  an  Of- 
ficers' Woodbine  about  you?" 

"A  what?" 

She  laughed.  "You  must  get  used  to  us  young  things, 
George.  An  Officers'  Woodbine's  a  Gasper,  otherwise  a 
Go-Id  Flake,  otherwise  a  Yellow  Peril,  and  therefore  any  sort 
of  a  cigarette.  He'll  know  what  I  mean,  and  he'll  laugh. 
He  went  through  the  war,  you  see.  Oh,  I  shall  be  able  to 
make  him  laugh  all  right !" 

So  she  would  reap  a  profit  even  out  of  the  war.  I  could 
not  deny  her  thoroughness.  I  gave  her  a  cigarette,  and  as 
I  held  the  match  for  her  I  saw  that  she  made  a  note  of  my 
care  for  the  brim  of  her  hat.  She  would  pass  that  too  on 
to  Derry  as  part  of  his  education — that  expensive  hats  must 
not  have  holes  burned  in  them. 

There  were  fewer  bathers  on  the  diving-stage  now  but  the 
beach  was  as  crowded  as  ever.  Julia  noted  hats,  shoes,  cos- 
tumes ;  she  noted  men  too,  but  no  young  figure  in  beret  and 
vareuse  appeared  in  the  rainbow-coloured  coming  and  going 
below.  Then  the  hum  of  an  aeroplane  was  heard,  and 
"Look,  that's  rather  amusing,"  she  remarked  as  there  broke 
out  from  the  machine,  twinkling  against  the  blue,  a  tiny 
cirrus-cloudlet  of  white  that  slowly  dissolved  and  was  borne 
away — leaflets  for  the  races  probably,  or  advertisements  for 
something  or  other  at  the  Casino. 


368  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

We  ceased  to  talk.  For  all  I  know  she  was  revolving 
projects  that  included  a  new  free-wheel  bicycle,  fresh  from 
its  crate,  with  packing  round  its  saddle  and  string  and  paper 
about  its  bright  parts.  Together  we  watched  the  fluttering 
of  paper  melt  away.  A  minute  later  you  could  hardly  have 
imagined  that  it  had  ever  been  there.  There  seemed  no 
reason  why  it  ever  should  have  been  there.  There  seemed 
so  little  reason  for  any  of  our  activities.  Not  one  of  those 
leaflets  had  fallen  over  the  land,  and  had  they  done  so,  what 
then?  A  litter  of  paper  from  an  aeroplane,  a  little  of  petty 
acts  from  a  person,  and  the  immensity  of  the  blue  persisting 
exactly  as  before.  For  the  humming  of  that  plane  had  re- 
minded me  of  another  humming.  I  remembered  a  Tower, 
with  a  horse-gin  threshing  at  an  adjacent  farm.  In  that 
Tower  too  things  had  happened,  so  mighty-seeming  at  the 
time,  so  hushed  in  the  empty  cells  of  its  stone  heart  now. 
I  watched  the  plane  out  of  sight. 

There  seemed  so  little  difference  between  a  handful  of 
leaflets  scattered  over  the  sea  and  a  handful  of  grasses  seed- 
ed on  that  circular  coping,  as  long  as  the  eternal  Oblivion 
of  the  Blue  brooded  overhead. 

Late  that  night,  in  the  garden  of  Ker  Annie,  there  kissed 
me  a  young  woman  who  had  never  kissed  me  before.  She 
kissed  me,  and  then  with  a  sob  fled  past  the  dark  auracaria 
into  the  house.  The  young  woman  was  Jennie  Aird. 

The  next  morning  she  had  gone. 


PART  IV 
THE  DESERT  ISLAND 


The  Island  is  deserted  only  in  that  none  but  they  come 
there;  for  them,  just  those  two,  it  blossoms  as  the  rose. 
Its  story  is  the  oldest  story  of  all,  and  the  newest.  It  is  told 
an  infinitude  of  times,  and  yet,  like  that  first  story  of  the 
cycle  of  a  thousand,  we  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  it 
before.  Let  us  listen  to  it  just  once  again. 

No  coral-reef  breaks  its  ceaselessly-thundering  rollers  into 
surf,  no  palms  wave  their  dark  fronds  in  the  blue.  Only  a 
holiday-coast,  with  the  London  and  South  Western  Com- 
pany's steamers  passing  daily,  and  the  known  and  familiar 
trees  of  oak  and  ilex  and  lime.  No  garments  of  skins  and 
necklaces  of  shells,  but  a  white  summer  frock,  a  grey  rain- 
coat over  it,  and  a  bundle  that  can  be  carried  in  the  hand. 
No  shelter  of  stones  and  branches  that  he  who  is  with  her 
toils  to  make  with  his  own  hands,  but  French  slates,  French 
tiles,  French  thatching,  whichever  it  may  be. 

And  no  wreck.     Only  the  wreck  of  a  home. 

Yet  it  is  a  Desert  Island  none  the  less;  a  Desert  Island 
with  pleasure-steamers  running,  and  cars  full  of  tourists 
coming  and  going,  and  the  Rate  of  Exchange  quoted  daily, 
and  the  sound  of  a  familiar  and  friendly  tongue  every- 
where. A  Desert  Island  with  guide-books  and  time-tables, 
chars-a-bancs,  the  vedettes  up  the  Ranee,  the  excursions  to 
Mont  St  Michel.  A  Desert  Island  with  cameras  and  pic- 
ture-postcards and  greetings  at  every  corner :  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  over  here!  The  So-and-Sos  have  just  gone  to 
Quimper.  We're  off  to  Concarneau  on  Tuesday.  Where 
are  you  staying,  and  did  you  ever  know  anything  like  the 
price  of  golf-balls  over  here?"  All  over  Haute  Bretagne 
the  same,  all  over  Northern  France  the  same;  and  some- 
where among  it  all  a  Desert  Island  CL  deux.  Probably  a 

37i 


372  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

moving  one,  on  four  bicycle- wheels.  But  where  look  for  it? 
In  Dol?  Lamballe?  Rennes?  In  what  arrondissement, 
canton,  commune  ?  There  are  many  bicycles  in  France,  but 
there  is  only  one  Island  precisely  like  that  one.  For  there 
is  only  one  man  who  has  been  forty-five  years  of  age  and 
is  now  eighteen,  only  one  woman  who,  embracing  him,  has 
made  her  fate  commensurate  with  his  own.  They  are  apart, 
unapproachable,  unidentified,  not  to  be  communicated  with 
though  you  look  into  their  faces  and  speak  to  them.  Their 
nonentity  is  lost  in  the  multitudinousness  of  everything  else. 
They  keep  no  signal-fires  burning  day  and  night  for  your 
ship  or  mine  that  passes.  They  are  marooned  in  their  own 
bliss,  angelic  castaways  who  will  not  return  to  us. 

Only  to  see  her,  only  to  hear  her  voice 

Only  on  a  fatal  day  to  tell  her  his  name,  the  name  of  that 
prisoner  in  the  Tower  that  may  not  be  spoken 

Only  to  send  back  a  bicycle  to  a  shop  (but  to  trust  her  to 
guess  that  where  a  bicycle  would  be  left  a  letter  would  also 
be  left,  and  an  appointment  made  at  some  secret  hour  be- 
tween a  the  dansant  and  bedtime  that  night) . 

Only  to  cut  the  knot  that  no  power  on  earth  could  untie, 
to  fetch  that  free-wheel  back  from  the  shop  under  cover  of 
the  darkness,  and  to  be  off  and  miles  away  before  the  sun 
rose  again. 

Was  it  well  or  ill  that  they  had  ever  set  eyes  on  one  an- 
other? 

And  what  the  better  now  is  Alec  Aird  if  he  does  find 
them?  The  times  have  changed  since  Madge  sat  in  her 
mother's  carriage  waiting  until  this  servant,  and  not  that 
one,  opened  the  door.  It  is  no  good  telling  Madge  he  told 
her  so.  He  can  disown  Jennie  or  he  can  take  her  back,  but 
there  is  no  middle  way.  The  consul  in  the  Rue  St  Philippe 
at  St  Malo  cannot  help  him,  and  at  the  Maine  at  St  Briac 
they  will  run  through  the  files  of  the  permis  de  sejour  in 
vain.  He  can  whisper — he  has  whispered — in  the  ears  of 
the  police,  and  they  may  run  the  pair  to  earth,  but  it  will 
not  be  to  the  earth  of  that  magical  island  of  theirs.  And 
let  Alec  agonise  in  Agony  Columns  as  much  as  he  will.  He 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  373 

can  forgive  her,  or  she  can  go  unforgiven.     All  else  is  out 
of  his  hands. 

And  yet  it  need  be  no  long  voyage  to  that  Isle.  It  is  to 
be  found  in  the  near  and  dear  heart.  But  only  by  those 
who  envy  not  and  vaunt  not,  who  suffer  long  and  are  kind. 
If  sin  there  has  been  it  must  have  been  taken  away  again — 
en  souffrance,  en  esperance,  avant  qu'il  est  venu  le  jour. 
But  then,  when  that  day  comes,  it  comes  as  it  were  with  a 
smile  through  the  lashes  of  its  opening  eye.  It  looks  up 
with  the  mounting  rays,  and  its  eyebrow  becomes  the  arch 
of  heaven.  C'est  efface,  1'horrible  passe.  II  est  venu  le 
jour. 

II 

On  a  clear  evening  in  the  last  days  of  August  I  found 
myself  sitting  in  the  Jardin  des  Anglais  in  Dinan,  alone. 
The  Airds  were  still  at  Ker  Annie,  Julia  Oliphant  still  with 
them;  but  I,  although  their  guest  and  under  promise  to  re- 
turn to  them,  had  absented  myself  for  a  few  days.  I  had 
done  this  as  much  for  their  sake  as  for  my  own.  Alec  was 
out  all  day,  or  if  not  out  hardly  to  be  seen  by  the  rest  of  us. 
Julia  and  Madge  were  better  together  without  me.  So  I 
had  made  no  falsely  delicate  excuse.  I  had  told  them  ex- 
actly what  I  am  saying  at  this  moment.  And  I  think  they 
had  been  grateful. 

The  garden  looks  east  over  the  viaduct  of  Lanvallay,  and 
above  the  misty  violet  that  enshrouded  the  land  a  trail  of 
pale  shirley  poppies  was  strung  out  over  the  sky — the  leagues 
of  cloud-tops  caught  by  the  last  of  the  sun.  The  parapet  in 
front  of  me  hid  all  else  as  I  sat.  One  or  two  people  stood 
against  it,  looking  out  over  the  abyss;  a  few  others  moved 
slowly  along  the  ramparts.  The  limes  above  me  were  al- 
ready benighted,  the  dark  mass  of  St  Sauveur  hidden  behind 
them.  The  crowded  vedettes  had  long  since  departed,  and 
the  comparatively  few  visitors  who  stay  in  Dinan  were  prob- 
ably at  the  Cafe  de  Bretagne  at  the  other  side  of  the  town. 

The  dark  tangle,  that  for  the  hundredth  time  I  was  trying 


374 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


to  unravel,  is  almost  impossible  of  statement,  so  little  of  the 
solid  was  there  to  support  it,  such  mazes  of  spiritual  con- 
jecture did  it  open  up.  Once  more  I  will  do  the  best  I  can 
with  it.  Understand,  to  begin  with,  that  he  had  now  repeat- 
ed what  I  had  better  call  the  "experience  of  the  flash-lamp." 
Formerly  it  had  been  Julia;  now  it  was  Jennie.  Therefore 
this,  if  anything,  seemed  to  follow : 


THAT  OTHER  TIME 
Julia  .  .  . 

The  approach  of  the  lamp  .  . 
He  had  been  greatly  loved. 
He  had  not  loved. 
He  had  remembered  nothing. 


But  he  had  woke  up  younger 
by  eleven  years. 


THIS  TIME 
Jennie  .  .  . 

The  approach  of  the  lamp  .  .  . 
He  was  greatly  loved. 
She  was  his  very  heart. 

I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
it. 

I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
it. 


Had  ended  in  fluctuations  of      I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 


his  "B"  memory. 


it. 


But,  save  for  that  "flash-lamp"      I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
gap,   his   "A"   memory   had         it. 
been  unimpaired. 


He  had  therefore  attained  a 
duality  of  (approximately) 
eighteen  and  forty-five. 

But  did  he  still  retain  it? 


I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
it. 


It   was   precisely   that   that   I 
wanted  to  know. 


In  other  words,  the  problem  that  had  confronted  me  when 
he  had  disappeared  from  his  rooms  in  Cambridge  Circus, 


375 

when  he  had  left  Trenchard's  rooms  in  South  Kensington 
and  had  got  to  France  by  swimming  the  Channel,  leaped 
upon  me  again  on  the  ramparts  of  that  ancient  French  town. 

How  old  was  he  now  ? 

But  no,  I  have  not  finished  yet.  Let  us  take  it  a  little 
further.  The  state  of  his  memory  at  this  point  was  a  mat- 
ter of  the  most  urgent  importance,  since  I  now  began  to  sus- 
pect that  the  whole  of  his  chance  of  again  going  forward 
turned  on  it.  So  we  now  had : 

Julia  had  taken  his  sin,  but  not     His  cry  had  been  immediate- 
his  memory  of   it,  since  he         ly  followed  by  an  aching  cry 
had  cried  out  upon  my  cow-         for  help  and  advice, 
ardice  in  speaking  of  it  at 
Le  Port  gap. 

He  had  subsequently  repeated     He  had  vowed  that  books  had 
a  page  from  his  book.  never  in  the  least  interested 

him. 

I   had   particularly  questioned     I  had  not  had  an  opportunity 
him  about  his  memory.  of  questioning  him. 

He  had  promised  to  take  no     He  had  taken  a  step  without 
step  without  my  knowledge.          my  knowledge. 

I  did  not  think  that  he  would     He  had  broken  it. 
knowingly  break  his  word  to 
me. 

Do  you  see  whither  it  leads?  You  do;  but  let  me  state 
it  as  it  struck  me,  sitting  there  watching  the  shirley  poppies 
in  the  east  with  St  Sauveur  dark  among  the  limes  behind  me. 

When  you  or  I  forget  a  thing  our  forgetting  does  not 
mean  that  that  thing  never  was.  Would  to  God  it  some- 
times did!  But  you  and  I  do  not  live  backwards  through 
our  years,  and  we  are  dealing  now  with  a  man  who  did. 
Suppose,  then,  that  this  "A"  memory  were  to  go  the  way  of 
his  "B"  one?  And  suppose  in  addition  that,  instead  of 
merely  resting  on  an  even  keel,  he  should  presently  begin 


376  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

to  forge  ahead  again  ?  In  that  case  he  would  once  more  be 
advancing  on  the  unknown.  His  future  to  him  would  be 
what  your  future  is  to  you,  mine  to  me.  And  it  is  a  condi- 
tion of  a  future's  being  a  future  that  it  shall  not  already 
have  been.  What  other  future  than  that  is  there?  There 
was  no  man  living,  Derwent  Rose  or  anybody  else,  who  had 
not  a  future.  And  when  a  thing  has  not  been  it  has  not 
been,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it.  He  was,  quite  simply,  and 
exactly  as  you  once  were,  exactly  as  I  once  was,  young  with 
a  single  age  again.  With  the  disappearance  of  his  last  "A" 
recollection,  past  time  itself  was  abolished.  For  him  forty- 
five  was  not,  and  never  had  been. 

And  gone  already  was  his  memory  of  at  least  one  event 
of  hardly  a  week  ago,  namely,  his  promise  to  me.  Nay, 
that  must  have  gone  before  ever  they  fled,  for  nothing  would 
have  been  easier  for  him  than  to  send  me  a  note  demanding 
his  release  from  his  word.  But  gone  how,  and  when  ?  Re- 
member, my  own  last  actual  sight  of  him  had  been  by 
F  rebel's  Light  when  we  had  stood  by  the  Crucifix  that  over- 
looks St  Briac  harbour.  My  last  direct  word  from  him 
had  been  that  note  that  Jennie  had  brought,  in  which  he  had 
reassured  me  that  he  was  to  be  trusted,  at  any  rate  till  I 
was  out  and  about  again.  And  my  last  news  of  him  of  any 
kind  prior  to  their  flight  was  that  he  had  sat  with  Jennie 
among  the  sarrasin  sheaves.  Therefore  whatever  had  hap- 
pened had  happened  during  the  few  days  between  his  writ- 
ing his  note  and  Noble's  discovery  of  them  and  speeding  to 
Ker  Annie  with  the  tale. 

I  counted  these  days  one  by  one. 

On  Wednesday  he  had  written  his  note. 

I  had  received  it  on  Thursday. 

On  the  following  Saturday  Julia  Oliphant  had  arrived. 

On  the  Tuesday  after,  the  day  of  my  first  walk  abroad, 
Noble  had  conspicuously  failed  to  mind  his  own  business,  and 
we  had  all  been  set  by  the  ears. 

So  far  so  good.  His  "A"  memory  might  have  broken 
down  on  any  of  these  days. 

And  yet  on  the  very  next  day  he  had  greeted  Miss  Oli- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  377 

phant  by  name!  He  had  not  only  remembered  her  when 
she  had  presented  herself  at  his  hotel,  but  had  remembered 
her  in  the  rather  curious  sense  that,  whereas  she  had  for- 
merly been  "Julia."  to  him,  she  was  now  "Miss." 

What  in  the  name  of  the  falling  night  was  one  to  make  of 
it  all? 

My  hotel  was  the  Poste,  in  the  Place  Duguesclin,  and, 
though  I  remembered  Dinan  only  imperfectly,  it  was  for 
evenings  such  as  this  that  I  had  come.  It  was  a  certainty 
that  Derry  and  Jennie  would  never  come  to  Dinan,  where, 
when  the  tides  served,  half  a  dozen  packet-boats  a  day  mieht 
bring  their  loads  of  visitors  from  the  very  place  from  which 
they  had  fled.  During  the  hours  when  the  excursionists 
throneed  the  old  town  it  was  simple  for  me  to  get  out  into 
the  surrounding  country,  to  take  an  omelette  at  some  inn  or 
other,  and  to  return  to  dinner.  At  other  states  of  the  tide 
the  passaee  by  river  was  impracticable,  and  few  strangers 
were  to  be  seen. 

The  poppies  went  out  of  the  sky  almost  suddenly.  Over 
the  parapet  all  was  a  soft  violet  vapour.  But  when  I  rose 
and  turned  slowly  up  the  Place  St  Sauveur  my  thoughts 
still  gave  me  their  shadowy  company. 

But  one  shadow  was  spared  me.  This  was  the  fear  with 
which  I  had  mounted  the  stairs  of  his  lodging  at  St  Briac. 
Had  he  not  been  living,  she  at  any  rate  would  have  been 
heard  of  at  Ker  Annie  before  this.  It  was  for  this  that  poor 
Alec  telegraphed,  advertised,  instructed  agents.  Not  that  he 
must  not  have  him  as  well  as  her.  Though  he  showed  him 
the  door  immediately  afterwards,  this  Arnaud  must  marry 
Jennie  first. 

And  the  chances  of  tracing  him  were  now  far  different 
from  those  when  I  had  fruitlessly  sought  him  in  London, 
only  to  have  him  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  in  a  Shaftes- 
burv  Avenue  picture-house  in  the  end.  For  he  had  been  a 
middle-aged  man  then,  with  all  the  bolt-holes  of  his  succes- 
sive personal  aopearances  to  dodsre  fantastically  in  and  out 
of.  Then,  a  nieht,  any  night,  might  have  made  him  unrec- 
ognisable, nameless,  a  ghost  among  living  men.  But  be- 


378  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

tween  eighteen  and  sixteen  is  no  very  great  difference.  He 
might  be  a  little  less  tall,  a  little  less  broad,  but  somewhere 
between  those  two  years  he  was  cornered.  His  description 
was  circulated,  hers  did  not  vary.  They  had  been  gone 
four  days.  Probably  a  week  at  the  outside  would  see  him 
touched  on  the  shoulder  in  this  place  or  that,  a  "Pardon, 
'M'sieu'  "  spoken  in  his  ear,  and  back  to  Alec  he  would  go. 

And  though  I  have  said  as  a  foolish  figure  of  speech  that 
on  that  magical  Island  of  theirs  they  were  unapproachably 
alone,  that  was  the  important  thing  from  Alec's  point  of 
view. 

There  is  a  little  cafe  tucked  away  in  an  angle  of  the  Rue 
de  1'Apport,  called,  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  Cafe  des 
Porches.  If  it  is  not  called  that  it  ought  to  be,  for  these 
Porches  stride  out  over  the  pavement  on  their  ancient  legs 
of  stone  and  wood  as  if  to  knock  together  the  overhanging 
brows  of  their  fantastic  upper  stories.  Indeed  one  would 
say  that  the  stalls  and  shops  and  barrows  tunnelled  beneath 
them  had  but  a  moment  before  been  flush  with  those  ancient 
fagades,  and  that  at  a  call  the  whole  house  had  suddenly  ad- 
vanced a  pace,  and  the  next  moment  might  advance  another. 
And  if  you  take  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  draw  the  bottom 
drawer  out  a  little,  and  the  one  above  a  little  more,  and  the 
one  above  that  a  little  more  still,  and  then  set  opposite  to  it 
another  chest  of  drawers  to  which  you  have  done  the  same, 
you  will  have  the  appearance  of  those  carved  and  corbelled 
and  enriched  and  decaying  frontages.  I  passed  under  their 
trampling  legs  and  sought  my  cafe. 

I  don't  remember  ever  actually  entering  that  cafe  in  my 
life.  I  preferred  either  of  the  two  tiny  round  pavement- 
tables  that  stood  one  on  either  side  of  its  low  doorway. 
There  was  just  room  to  squeeze  in  between  the  two  portable 
hedges  of  privet  that  stood  in  long  wooden  boxes  on  the 
kerb;  and  from  this  seat,  unless  they  happened  to  be  com- 
ing towards  you  under  the  Porches  or  going  directly  away, 
little  more  than  a  glimpse  of  passers-by  could  be  had  through 
the  narrow  opening.  If  they  happened  to  pass  on  a  bicycle 
it  was  the  merest  zoetrope-flicker  and  they  were  gone. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  379 

I  sat  down,  called  for  coffee  and  a  fine,  and  watched  the 
shopkeepers  opposite  putting  up  their  shutters  for  the  night. 

One  thing  at  any  rate  seemed  now  to  be  over  and  done 
with,  and  that  was  poor  Julia  Oliphant's  desperate  adventure. 
Poor  woman,  it  was  as  much  for  her  sake  as  theirs  that  I 
had  left  the  Airds  for  a  few  days.  Could  she  have  done 
the  same  and  have  gone  back  to  England  it  might  have  been 
as  well,  but  that  would  have  been  to  leave  Madge  insup- 
portably  alone.  A  single  day  in  that  daughterless  house 
had  been  enough  for  me.  The  next  morning  I  had  made 
my  explanation,  had  promised  to  return,  had  made  a  few 
purchases,  and  had  packed  my  bag.  Any  news  was  to  be 
wired  or  telephoned  to  me  at  the  Poste.  That  briefly-con- 
cluded arrangement  had  been  practically  the  whole  of  my 
conversation  with  Madge. 

With  Julia  I  had  had  even  fewer  words;  for  what  was 
there  to  say?  Even  to  Madge  one  could  hardly  have  com- 
mitted the  grossness  and  superfluity  of  saying  that  one  was 
sorry;  what  then  of  Julia?  Was  I  sorry?  For  herself  my 
heart  bled ;  but  was  I  sorry  for  the  miscarriage  of  her  ve- 
hement and  tremendous  attempt? 

Yet  how  remember  her  as  I  had  found  her  in  the  salon 
on  the  morning  of  the  discovery,  and  be  glad  for  Derwent 
Rose  and  his  irregular  bridal?  She  had  worn  a  hat  and 
frock  of  white  pique,  but  the  pique  had  not  been  whiter  than 
her  face  nor  the  auracaria  darker  than  her  sombre  lashes 
and  ringed  eyes. 

"You've  heard  ?"  she  had  said. 

"Alec's  just  told  me." 

"Of  course "     The  unuttered  words  were  "with  him." 

"It  looks  terribly  like  it." 

"Had  you  any  idea  ?"  This  with  a  look  so  imperious  that 
I  was  thankful  to  be  able  to  reply  truthfully. 

"None.  Is  there  anything — any  little  thing — we  may 
do?" 

"Settle  that  with  Alec.     I  must  be  with  her." 

And  that  had  been  about  all.  I  had  not  dared  to  ask  her 
whether  there  was  anything  I  could  do  for  herself. 


380  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

But  if  not  because  she  had  failed,  at  least  because  of  this 
all-at-once  dropping  of  the  bottom  out  of  everything  for 
which  she  had  lived,  one  heart  in  Dinan  resumed  its  ache 
for  her  that  night.  Stratagems  learned  of  any  man,  though 
she  broke  his  heart  with  a  laugh  in  the  learning — and  then 
to  have  her  own  broken !  Arms  to  provoke  the  world — and 
no  world  to  be  provoked  now  that  he,  her  world,  had  failed 
her !  Nothing  had  been  too  little  for  her,  nothing  too  great. 
Officers'  Woodbines  and  her  adoration  of  his  painting,  his 
years  of  war  and  a  hat  that  hid  one  eye !  What  were  those 
arms  and  shoulders  of  hers  but  his  own  gesture,  ready  to 
be  given  back  to  him,  when  he  had  shown  himself  in  my 
swimming-pond,  in  that  studio  in  Cremorne  Road?  How 
she  had  dreamed  to  glory  in  herself;  what  glories,  for  all 
I  knew,  had  she  not  planned  for  the  very  next  day !  And 
all,  all  to  have  gone  in  the  seeming  security  of  that  very 
moment  when  she  had  thought  her  rival  out  of  the  way! 
"New  bicycles  for  old,"  she  had  planned,  a  new  free-wheel 
with  packing  about  its  saddle  and  string  and  paper  round 
its  polished  parts;  but  not  a  wheel  would  any  bicycle  ever 
turn  now  to  help  her.  The  last  she  had  seen  of  this  man 
whose  destiny  she  had  so  arrogantly  made  her  own  was 
when  he  had  shown  her  a  picture — a  picture  of  her  young 
victress,  lying  among  white  masonry  as  ruined  as  Julia  Oli- 
phant's  hope. 

And  even  that  she  had  had  to  ask  to  see. 

The  greengrocer  under  the  Porche  to  the  left  was  putting 
up  his  last  shutter,  the  seller  of  hardware  and  Breton  pot- 
tery across  the  way  had  already  done  so.  Elsewhere  from 
under  the  houses'  bellies  dim  gleams  of  light  showed  as  if 
through  horn.  In  the  upper  stories  window  shone  into  win- 
dow across  the  street — half  Dinan  is  in  bed  by  half -past 
nine.  A  priest  in  soutane  and  pancake  hat  hurried  past, 
glancing  into  my  retreat  as  he  did  so.  Presently  there  was 
little  light  except  that  that  streamed  from  the  doorway  be- 
hind me,  yellowing  the  artificial  hedge  and  showing  the  ele- 
phantine feet  opposite — still  where  they  were.  Even  this 
light  was  darkened  as  a  couple  of  convives,  with  a  "Bonsoir, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  381 

Madame,"  blocked  the  doorway  for  a  moment,  gave  me  also 
a  muttered  "Bonsoir,"  and  mingled  with  the  shadows  down 
the  street.  I  watched  them  disappear. 

But  before  they  were  quite  lost  among  the  trampling 
Porches  there  cut  across  my  opening,  quick  as  a  zoetrope- 
flicker,  and  with  the  single  little  "ting"  of  an  ill-adjusted 
bell,  a  bicycle. 

My  eyes  function  quite  normally;  but  they  are  not  an 
instantaneous  camera.  In  the  tenth  part  of  a  second  I  had 
turned  my  head  to  the  right  inside  my  little  screen  of  privet. 
Alas!  Round  tubs,  with  more  privet,  blocked  either  end. 
I  sprang  up,  but  the  round  table  was  in  my  way.  I  extri- 
cated myself  just  one  moment  too  late.  I  stood  looking 
down  the  dark  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie. 

But  she  had  vanished. 

She — not  he ;  for  even  in  that  momentary  flash  there  had 
been  no  mistaking  that  uncovered  red-gold  head.  But  noth- 
ing else  had  been  familiar.  A  black  shawl  had  enwrapped 
her  shoulders,  a  green  plaid  skirt  had  made  an  irregular 
rhomboid  from  the  saddle  downwards.  Her  stockings  were 
black,  and  white  canvas  shoes  with  jute  soles  covered  her 
feet.  On  the  handle-bar  had  swung  a  basket,  with  parcels 
in  it  and  a  baton  of  bread  sticking  out. 

They  were  in  Dinan  after  all. 


Ill 

In  Dinan  after  all,  and  risking  the  visitors  who  arrived 
by  the  boat! 

One  moment  though.  There  had  been  provisions  in  that 
basket  on  the  handle-bar.  If  I  myself  could  clear  off  during 
the  busy  hours  of  the  day  and  take  my  omelette  at  a  quiet 
roadside  inn,  what  was  there  to  prevent  their  doing  the 
same?  She  had  been  "buying  in."  Possibly  she  was  now 
cutting  sandwiches  for  the  morrow's  consumption.  Then, 
like  myself,  they  would  return  at  night,  in  the  hour  when 
the  shutters  were  being  put  up,  the  Porches  played  heaven 


382  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

knew  what  gambols  in  the  darkness,  and  even  the  lights  of 
the  Bretagne  were  extinguished,  the  awnings  rolled  up  and 
the  chairs  and  tables  carried  inside. 

Or  for  that  matter,  they  might  be  in  Dinan  for  the  night 
only,  and  off  on  their  bicycles  in  the  morning. 

Yet  somehow  there  had  been  a  settled  look  about  that 
figure  that  had  passed  the  opening  of  the  privet  and  been 
gone  all  in  a  moment.  People  who  stay  only  one  night  in  a 
place  usually  have  their  buying-in  done  for  them.  And  if 
he  was  in  vareuse  and  corduroys,  her  own  dress  had  been 
indistinguishable  from  that  of  almost  any  shop-assistant  or 
ouvreuse  one  might  meet  in  the  town.  In  vain  had  Alec  and 
Madge  gone  through  her  wardrobe  to  see  what  garments 
were  missing.  That  part  of  his  description  was  useless. 
Only  Madame  Arnaud's  face  was  Jennie  Aird's. 

I  did  not  sit  down  again.  I  called  inside  the  cafe,  paid 
what  I  owed,  and  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  the  bicycle 
had  taken.  There  was  now,  unfortunately,  no  hurry,  and 
I  considered  this  direction  carefully.  Two  streets  led  to 
the  right,  but  one  of  these  might  be  eliminated,  since  in  order 
to  take  it  she  would  have  had  to  skirt  the  shadow  of  the 
Porches,  which  she  could  hardly  have  done  without  my  see- 
ing her.  Remained  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie.  This  is  a 
narrower  slit  even  than  that  made  by  the  Porches.  The  sign 
of  a  dingy  little  restaurant,  dimly  seen  by  the  light  of  a  lan- 
tern high  up  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  alone  seemed  to 
keep  the  two  sides  from  bumping  together.  One  makes  one's 
way  as  best  one  can  between  two  gutters,  none  too  pleasant 
to  the  nostrils,  and  to  right  and  left  the  low-windowed  shops 
and  eating-houses  seem  to  have  settled  a  yard  into  the  earth. 

Then,  half  way  down  this  alley,  bicycles  caught  my  eye. 
The  murky  light  from  a  half-open  door  on  the  right  showed 
the  gleam  of  a  couple  of  mudguards.  I  stepped  over  the 
gutter. 

The  next  moment  I  had  cursed  myself  for  a  fool.  The 
officers  from  the  two  great  barracks  of  Duguesclin  and  Bau- 
manoir  dine  at  the  Poste  or  at  the  Bretagne,  but  there  is  not 
a  cabaret  or  eating-house  in  the  town  that  is  not  nightly  vis- 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  383 

ited  by  the  N.C.O.'s  and  men.  To  see  half  a  dozen  bicycles 
stacked  outside  a  doorway  was  the  commonest  of  sights. 
There  were  four  or  five  of  them  here  now. 

Nevertheless  I  peeped  through  the  half-open  door.  I  saw 
a  low  smoky  kitchen  interior,  one  half  of  it  like  any  other 
kitchen,  but  the  farther  end  entirely  occupied  by  a  dresser 
crowded  with  bottles  of  all  shapes  and  sizes  and  colours. 
A  fat  little  woman  in  a  blue-checked  apron  and  lace  cap  was 
ironing;  the  rest  of  the  table  was  a  litter  of  kepis,  bottles 
and  glasses.  Through  drifting  cigarette-smoke  men's  bare 
heads  showed,  the  red  breeches  of  dragoons,  the  black 
breeches  of  infantry,  and  a  couple  of  young  fellows  in  hori- 
zon-blue, one  with  a  steel  cap  on  his  head.  No  woman's 
bicycle  was  likely  to  be  found  among  those  heavy  Service 
machines.  I  turned  away. 

So  she  had  slipped  me  for  the  moment.  But  she  was  in 
Dinan.  What  to  do  now  ? 

Wire  immediately  to  Alec,  I  supposed. 

But  as  I  crossed  the  Place  Duguesclin  I  had  a  better  idea. 
It  was  the  lights  of  the  Poste  showing  under  the  dark  limes 
that  put  it  into  my  head.  Charlotte  might  be  able  to  help 
me.  Charlotte  was  the  little  Italian-looking  toulonnaise  who 
served  the  cafes  and  fines  outside  the  hotel  and  never  failed 
to  ask  me  how  I  had  slept  when  she  brought  my  coffee  and 
roll  in  the  morning.  My  French,  I  ought  to  say,  though 
serviceable  enough,  is  not  of  the  same  pure  fount  as  was 
Berry's,  and  Charlotte  even  more  than  the  other  ladies  of 
the  hotel  took  the  most  charming  and  hospitable  pains  in 
talking  with  me.  And  I  have  always  found  that,  whether 
in  another  tongue  or  in  your  own,  a  great  deal  of  your  ease 
depends  on  who  you  are  talking  to.  What  I  mean  is  that 
Charlotte  and  I  were  friends. 

I  walked  into  the,  large  public  room  where  Madame  at  her 
desk  was  casting  up  her  day's  accounts.  The  chairs  were 
being  piled  on  the  marble-topped  tables,  and  through  the 
maze  of  their  legs  I  saw  that  Charlotte  had  not  yet  gone. 
That  was  my  idea.  I  knew  that  Charlotte  lived,  not  in  the 
hotel,  but  somewhere  in  the  town,  coming  and  going  daily. 


384  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

I  approached  her.     I  will  give  our  low  and  brief  conversa- 
tion in  English. 

"Have  you  remarked  in  the  town,  Charlotte,  a  young 
woman  of  such-and-such  a  manner  of  dress  and  such-and- 
such  a  face  and  hair,  especially  the  hair,  who  buys  her  bread 
and  groceries  a  little  late  at  night  and  possibly  on  a  bicycle  ?" 

"The  shops  are  closed  when  one  leaves  this  hotel,  M'sieu'," 
sighed  Charlotte. 

"But  you  inhabit  the  town.  I  will  re-describe."  I  did 
so.  "If  it  were  possible  to  furnish  me  with  renseigne- 
ments " 

"Hold,  M'sieu'.     This  lady  is  French?" 

"Only  exteriorly.  Without  doubt  she  speaks  French,  but 
as  I  do  myself,  like  a  Spanish  cow." 

"Non,  non,  M'sieu',"  Charlotte  politely  protested.  "But 
wait.  She  is  alone  ?" 

"She  is  with  her  French  husband,  the  most  beautiful 
young  man  even  among  the  beautiful  young  men  of  France." 
(I  was  glad  Alec  was  not  there  to  hear  me.) 

Charlotte  gave  an  exclamation.     "Then  it  is  they !" 

"Ah!     And  they  live ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  M'sieu'.     But  Dinan  is  not  very  large." 

"Neither  is  this  very  large,  Charlotte,  but  it  may  aggran- 
dise itself " 

And  there  passed  between  us  certain  pieces  of  postage- 
stamp-edging  that  united  the  filthy  remnants  of  what  had 
once  been  the  notes  of  a  Chamber  of  Commerce.  I  sought 
my  candle  and  ascended  to  my  room. 

In  Dinan !  Well,  it  was  quite  like  him  to  have  cunningly 
read  our  minds,  anticipated  our  conclusions,  and  decided  that 
Dinan  was  perhaps  not  so  unsafe  after  all.  And  his  mas- 
tery of  French  would  enable  him  to  remain  obscure. 

Yet  one  or  two  little  things  puzzled  me.  Jennie's  French, 
for  example,  was  not  remarkable ;  why  then  should  he,  able 
to  bargain  like  a  native  to  the  last  cabbage-leaf,  have  risked 
discovery  by  sending  her  shopping  instead  of  going  himself? 
Was  another  change  coming?  Had  it  come?  Though  it 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  385 

could  not  now  be  externally  a  great  one,  was  he  none  the 
less  nervous  about  it?  ...  But  it  was  no  good  guessing. 
If  Charlotte  had  any  luck  at  all  I  should  know  in  the  morn- 
ing. In  the  meantime  bed  was  no  bad  place. 

My  room  looked  on  the  inner  courtyard  of  the  hotel.  I 
was  asleep  before  the  lights  of  the  staircases  and  windows 
opposite  had  ceased  to  flicker  over  my  ceiling  and  the  ward- 
robe-mirror at  my  bed's  foot. 

I  awoke  to  the  sound  of  Dinan's  bells.  At  first  I  could 
not  remember  what  it  was  of  importance  that  I  had  on  my 
mind.  Then  the  mists  of  sleep  cleared  away  and  it  all 
came  brightly  back.  I  dressed  hurriedly  and  descended. 
Almost  immediately  Charlotte  came  to  my  table  with  my 
coffe  and  my  news. 

And  I  had  been  right  after  all.  They  were  at  that  house 
sunk  a  yard  into  the  earth  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie 
where  the  soldiers'  bicycles  had  stood. 

"And  the  name  of  the  proprietor  of  the  house?" 

"Cest  Madame  Carguet,  M'sieuV 

"Merci,  Charlotte.  You  will  buy  yourself  a  hat  for  Sun- 
days, but  the  best  in  Dinan,  it  is  understood " 

A  quarter  past  nine  found  me  at  that  low  doorway  into 
which  I  had  peeped  the  evening  before.  Madame  stood  at 
the  table,  washing  lettuce  in  a  crock.  I  tapped  and  entered. 

"Madame  Carguet?" 

"It  is  I,  M'sieu'." 

"I  am  a  friend  of  the  lady  and  gentleman  who  are  stay- 
ing with  you.  May  I  see  them  ?" 

She  had  kind,  vivacious  and  shrewd  little  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  measure  me  for  a  moment. 

"And  the  name  of  M'sieu'  who  asks?" 

I  thought  it  possible  that  he  might  have  left  instructions 
about  anybody  who  might  ask  for  him.  In  any  case  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  be  open  and  above-board.  I  told 
her  my  name,  corroborating  my  statement  with  my  card. 
She  wiped  her  wet  hands  on  her  apron  and  took  the  card  by 
the  extreme  tip. 


386  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

"Merci,  M'sieu'.  But  actually  it  is  that  they  have  gone 
painting,  taking  with  them  the  provisions  for  the  day,  as 
every  day." 

"They  will  be  back ?" 

"This  evening.     Oh,  assuredly,  M'sieu'." 

Then,  whether  my  manner  or  my  card  reassured  her,  or 
however  it  was,  her  face  lighted  up  and  she  broke  into  a 
flood  of  ecstatic  French  of  which  I  understood  perhaps  one 
word  in  three. 

"But  it  is  just  as  I  said  to  my  husband,  M'sieu' — the  fairy- 
tale of  Cendrillon,  just!  'Vieux  sot,  but  where  are  your 
eyes?'  I  said.  'Regard  how  she  holds  the  fer-a-repasser  to 
her  cheek ;  did  she  ever  before  iron  a  chemise  or  a  coiffe  in 
her  life?  Look  at  her  hands  which  hold  the  needle.  It 
is  not  like  you  and  me,  ce  couple-ci ;  it  is  of  a  different  order. 
You  will  see  arrive  the  coach  presently — justement  Cen- 
drillon!' Ah,  the  beautiful  pair!  And  he,  so  young,  to 
have  fought  through  this  terrible  war!  Mais  oui,  M'sieu', 
c'est  vrai — but  necessarily  M'sieu'  knows  better  than  I  who 
tell  him.  At  first  one  would  not  believe.  The  poilus  here, 
they  would  not  believe.  Who  would  believe?  But  mon 
Dieu,  it  is  true!  Our  Caporal  Robert,  he  was  at  the  very 
places.  It  is  correct  absolutely — the  regiments,  the  divisions, 
the  commandants,  the  tranchees,  the  boyaux,  the  dates — 
Caporal  Robert  can  verify  all,  for  he  too,  he,  was  in  contact 
with  the  English  armies !  To  hear  them  talk  of  an  evening, 
M'sieu',  yes,  in  this  very  room,  while  Madame  sews  or  as- 
sists me  with  the  ironing  or  no  matter  what " 

"But  they  have  only  been  here — how  many  days  ?" 

"Four  days,  M'sieu' — but  we  love  them.  Ah,  the  differ- 
ence when  such  as  they  drop  from  the  skies !  It  beautifies 
our  life.  C'est  une  f uite,  sans  doute,  M'sieu'  ?" 

"A  little ;  but  all  will  be  accommodated." 

"You  are  a  parent,  M'sieu'?" 

"I  am  a  friend  of  the  parents.  I  am  un  peu — ambassa- 
dor." 

"And  they  will  return  and  be  pardoned?" 

"It  is  what  I  seek  to  arrange." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  387 

She  had  placed  a  chair  for  me.  She  herself  sat  with  her 
back  to  the  table  on  the  bench  that  had  been  occupied  by  the 
red-breeched  dragoons  the  night  before  I  glanced  round  the 
room.  Behind  the  open  door  the  inner  tube  of  a  bicycle 
hung  on  a  nail  in  the  wall,  and  a  bicycle-pump  and  an  oilcan 
stood  on  a  little  shelf  above  it.  Beneath  the  shelf  was  an 
empty  space,  more  than  sufficient  for  a  bicycle.  I  saw  now 
how  I  had  missed  her.  She  had  wheeled  her  bicycle  straight 
in  and  had  put  it  behind  the  door,  had  crossed  the  kitchen 
to  a  closed  door  on  my  right,  and  had  gone  to  her  room — 
gone  to  where  he  waited  for  her,  for  he  had  certainly  not 
been  among  the  soldiers  when  I  had  peeped  in. 

"You  say  that  M'sieu'  talks  to  the  clients  of  an  evening, 
Madame.  Did  he  do  so  last  night?" 

"Last  night,  no,  M'sieu'.  One  missed  him.  But  talk  to 
them,  he!  For  three  nights  he  has  talked  and  laughed  all 
the  evening  while  she  has  assisted  me.  Talk  and  laugh? 
C'est  a  dire !  To  hear  him  sing  to  the  copains — 'En  France 
y  a  qu'  des  Francos' — la  figure,  les  gestes — c'est  a  tordre !" 

And  sitting  there  she  sought  to  give  me  the  impression, 
singing  his  song  in  a  cracked  voice : 

"A  part  les  Anglais,  Americains, 
Espagnols,  Anamit's,  Italians, 
Les  Russes,  Les  Hollandais  et  les  p'tits  Japonais — 
En  France  y  a  qu'  des  Franqais ! 

Ah,  but  he  is  an  original,  he !" 

"But  why  then  was  he  not  of  the  clientele  last  night?"  I 
asked. 

"I  do  not  know,  M'sieu'.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little  souf- 
f  rant.  It  was  'Madame  who  made  les  emplettes  last  night ; 
ordinarily  it  is  he,  and  oh,  M'sieu',  M'sieu',  pour  les  oc- 
casions !  .  .  .  She  took  her  bicycle  which  reposes  behind  the 
door  there,  and  was  gone  scarcely  a  little  half-hour,  and  then 
she  replaced  the  bicycle  and  mounted  straight  to  him  in  the 
room  that  is  above." 

"Did  you  see  them  go  out  this  morning?" 

"No,  M'sieu'." 


388  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

("Then,  chere  Madame,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "do  not  be 
surprised  if  you  do  not  see  them  return  this  evening.") 

For  this  was  newly  disturbing.  Apparently  for  three 
nights  he  had  made  the  purchases,  as  I  had  anticipated  he 
would ;  then  on  the  fourth  night  he  had  sent  her.  For  three 
nights  he  had  sat  in  that  half -underground  room,  laughing 
and  talking  with  the  evening  customers ;  then  on  the  fourth 
he  had  buried  himself  upstairs.  I  looked  round  the  kitchen 
again.  I  tried  to  see  the  picture — the  incredulous  poilus, 
questioning,  cross-questioning,  demanding  who  was  on  his 
regiment's  right,  who  on  its  left,  what  division  was  in  sup- 
port, under  whose  command.  Quite  possibly  Caporal  Robert 
had  been  had  in  specially  to  check  his  accuracy.  What  a 
stroke  of  luck  for  him  that  he  had  actually  served  at  a  point 
of  contact  between  the  British  line  and  the  French !  And 
here  in  this  room  he  had  sat,  pulling  their  legs,  as  he  had 
pulled  mine  in  the  Boulevard  Feart,  Alec  Aird's  at  Ker 
Annie.  The  cool  impudence  of  his  song!  "Only  French- 
men in  France !"  How  he  had  laughed  in  his  sleeve !  Well 
might  Madame  Carguet  shake  her  head  and  say  that  he  was 
impayable,  he! 

But — it  (you  know  what  I  mean  by  "it")  happened  in  the 
night;  and  what  was  the  appalling  position  now  that  his 
nights  were  shared  with  another  ?  Her  too  I  tried  to  picture 
again  in  that  lamplighted  kitchen,  clumsily  sewing,  burning 
herself  with  the  iron,  with  the  poilus,  grave  and  respectful, 
but  making  the  very  utmost  of  their  moustaches  and  stealing 
covert  glances  at  her  as  her  head  was  down  hung  over  the 
ironing-board.  "Une  fuite" — obviously  an  elopement.  Any- 
one could  see  that  with  half  an  eye.  But  to  what  had  she 
fled  ?  To  yet  another  of  his  transformations  ?  Slight  though 
any  transformation  must  now  be,  she  knew  every  line  of  his 
beautiful  face,  and  what  must  be  her  consternation,  what  her 
alarm,  did  but  a  single  line  alter,  though  it  became  more 
beautiful  still? 

And  unless  they  returned  to  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie 
to-night  (which  I  now  entirely  doubted),  what  was  the  good 
of  telegraphing  to  Alec  ? 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  389 

"You  say  he  is  painting,  as  every  day,"  I  said.  "Has  he 
any  pictures  in  the  house  at  this  moment?" 

"Twenty  or  more,  M'sieuV 

"They  are  in  his  room  without  doubt  ?" 

"Oui,  M'sieu'.  At  this  moment  even.  After  his  depar- 
ture this  morning  I  did  his  room  with  my  own  hands." 

"He  sells  his  pictures  ?" 

She  gave  a  shrug.  "That  I  cannot  say.  He  sketches  the 
clients,  but  those  he  gives  away.  Caporal  Robert  he  drew 
as  one  should  say  himself,  le  Caporal,  breathing  upon  the  pa- 
per. Evidemment  he  has  exposed  at  the  Galleries.  Are  his 
pictures  of  great  value,  M'sieu'  ?" 

"I  am  unable  to  say,  Madame." 

("But,"  I  thought,  "as  it  is  a  wager  that  those  pictures  up- 
stairs and  that  bicycle-pump  behind  the  door  will  be  his  pay- 
ment for  his  lodging,  it  is  to  be  hoped  they  are.") 

I  rose. 

"Thank  you,  Madame.  As  to  my  visit  to  you,  you  will 
see  that  there  is  a  discretion  to  be  observed.  I  shall  return 
this  evening  at  nine  o'clock.  In  the  meantime  it  would  give 
me  great  pleasure  if  you  would  share  a  vermouth  sec  with 
me." 

But  she  was  on  her  feet  instantly.  "Non  non  non  non! 
It  is  I  who  should  have  remembered!  We  are  going  to 
drink  to  those  two  angels,  but  yes,  at  the  expense  of  the 
house,  I  implore!  Et  quand  la  Carosse  de  Cendrillon  ar- 
rivera  a  la  porte  .  .  .  non  non,  M'sieu',  it  is  the  house  that 
pays  .  .  .  ah,  but  what  insistence!  .  .  .  Well,  well,  as 
M'sieu'  wishes " 

She  busied  herself  among  her  bottles,  humming  to  herself 

as  she  did  so  the  words  of  his  song :  " et  les  p'tits  Japo- 

nais,  En  France  y  a  qu'  des  Frangais !" 

I  will  not  linger  over  the  details  of  that  day.  I  wandered 
aimlessly  hither  and  thither,  out  through  St  Louis'  ancient 
gate,  under  the  grey  walls  of  the  Petits  Fosses,  back  and 
forth  in  the  shade  of  the  tall  elms,  stupid  with  too  much 
thinking.  I  could  only  repeat  over  and  over  to  myself, 
"Another  lapse,  another  lapse!  That  was  why  he  kept  to 


390  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

his  room  last  night.  His  landlady  didn't  see  him  go  out 
this  morning;  she  won't  see  him  come  back  to-night.  It's 
happened  again,  and  he's  off  somewhere  else.  And  she's 
with  him.  Poor  child,  poor,  poor  child!" 

I  lunched  at  the  Poste,  and  in  the  afternoon  walked  again. 
But  the  brilliance  of  the  summer's  day  was  lost  on  me.  I 
thought  that  after  all  I  would  go  back  to  England.  What 
was  done  was  done,  what  was  to  come  would  come.  The 
sightseers  who  wandered  up  and  down  under  the  Porches  or 
gaped  in  groups  in  the  Place  St  Sauveur  seemed  unreal  to 
me;  the  shadow  of  what  had  probably  again  happened  was 
my  reality.  Poor,  poor  child !  She,  our  lovely  Jennie  Aird, 
to  alight  on  a  broken  wing  in  that  dingy  kitchen,  to  sit  among 
poilus,  to  listen  to  his  mocking  song!  And  he,  with  that 
shadow  darkening  over  both  of  them,  could  actually  find  it 
in  his  heart  to  sing.  .  .  . 

The  visitors  descended  the  Lainerie  to  the  vedettes  again  ; 
the  Porches  watched  them  go;  and  once  more  I  had  the 
Place  St  Sauveur  to  myself. 

Mechanically  I  entered  the  church.  I  closed  the  leather 
door  softly  behind  me  as  I  became  aware  of  a  small  group 
a  little  way  up  the  aisle.  I  slipped  into  the  nearest  pew,  half 
concealed  behind  a  pillar.  Apparently  a  christening  was  to- 
ward, for  a  stout  little  Frenchman  with  a  waxed  moustache 
held  a  babe  in  his  arms.  He  tickled  the  infant's  chin  and 
allowed  it  to  clutch  his  finger,  chatting  and  laughing  softly 
as  they  waited  for  the  priest.  The  priest  appeared,  followed 
by  three  or  four  acolytes  carrying  candles;  he  also  laughed 
and  joked  and  chatted  quietly,  while  the  cerise-coped  urchins, 
their  candles  at  all  angles,  shifted  their  feet,  leaned  against 
the  font,  and  looked  negligently  round.  There  was  an  al- 
most jocular  intimacy  about  it  all,  until  the  priest,  in  a  secret, 
attentive  and  distinct  voice  that  nevertheless  filled  the  aisle, 
began  the  Sacrament.  .  .  .  And  I  caught  myself  foolishly 
wondering  whether  that  babe  too  would  grow  up,  have  some- 
thing inexplicable  happen  to  it,  and  set  out  on  the  return 
journey  to  the  cradle  again.  If  to  one,  why  not  to  another? 
Why  not  to  all  the  world?  What  was  there  to  prevent  one 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  391 

of  those  inattentive  acolytes  having  by  and  by  the  part  of  a 
George  Coverham  to  play?  Why  should  not  that  mite  of 
four  holding  her  mother's  hand  turn  out  to  be  a  Julia  Oli- 
phant?  Or  those  other  wide-eyed  tots  be  some  future 
Madge  and  Alec  Aird?  .  .  .  But  it  occurred  to  me  that 
these  thoughts  would  not  do.  All  at  once  I  rose  and  stole 
silently  out.  Even  in  a  church  there  seemed  to  be  no  com- 
fort for  me.  This  time  I  took  a  long  walk,  I  hardly  remem- 
ber where,  and  did  not  return  till  it  was  time  for  dinner. 

I  had  very  little  hope  of  seeing  the  runaways,  but  I  might 
as  well  keep  my  appointment  as  not.  At  a  little  before  nine, 
therefore,  I  turned  into  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie.  As  I 
did  so  my  heart  gave  a  leap  to  notice  that  the  window  over 
the  low  doorway  of  the  inn  was  lighted  up. 

With  my  eyes  on  the  light  I  moved  to  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  Carved  wooden  corbals  supported  the  overhang- 
ing bay,  but  the  window  itself  was  modern.  The  light  was 
apparently  placed  low  down,  on  a  chair  or  on  the  floor,  for 
half  over  the  sagging  ceiling  I  could  see  the  enormous  soft 
shadow  of  somebody's  head.  The  shadow  moved,  and  the 
somebody  approached  the  window. 

Then  I  saw  the  glint  of  her  hair. 

I  entered  the  brasserie,  bowed  to  Madame  among  her 
troopers,  and  looked  inquiringly  towards  the  inner  door. 
She  had  a  candle  ready.  She  lighted  it,  opened  the  door, 
put  the  candle  into  my  hand  and  one  finger  on  her  lips, 
pointed  up  a  staircase  no  wider  than  if  two  interior  walls 
had  cracked  slightly  apart,  and  withdrew.  I  ascended. 

Then,  before  I  reached  the  landing,  I  heard  his  clear  voice. 

"I  say,  darling,  what  does  'belier'  mean  ?" 


IV 

The  door  was  a  couple  of  inches  ajar.  The  clear  voice 
continued.  Apparently  he  was  reading  aloud. 

"  'La  etait  une  tour  dite  Le  Poulailler' — (poulaille's  poul- 
try)— 'qui  renfermait  Le  Chat,  machine  de  guerre' — (where 


392  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

the  Chat,  a  machine  of  war,  was  kept) — 'sorte  de  belier  a 
griffes  pour  les  sieges' — something  with  claws  for  sieges — 
now  what  on  earth  is  'belier'  ?  Seems  to  have  been  some  sort 
of  a  battering-ram.  .  .  .  There,  how  stupid  of  me!  Why, 
I've  just  said  the  very  word !  'Ram,'  of  course.  They  kept 
the  battering-ram  there.  .  .  .  'On  peut  visiter  dans  une  mai- 
son  voisine  le  passage  en  casemate  de  la  courtine' — sort  of 
fortified  wall,  I  expect — 'et  aussi  dans  les  caves  de  1'Hotel 
de  la  Poste' — and  also  in  the  cellars  of  the  Hotel  de  la 
Poste " 

Thereupon  I  pushed  and  entered. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  long,  low  chest,  the  sort  of  thing  corn 
or  flour  would  be  kept  in,  with  the  single  candle  by  his  side. 
In  his  hand  was  the  paper-covered  guide-book  from  which 
he  was  laboriously  reading.  The  little  table  at  which  she 
stood  was  pushed  up  against  the  wall  just  beyond  him ;  she 
was  preparing  their  supper.  A  long  roll  was  tucked  under 
her  left  arm,  and  she  spread  the  butter  from  a  little  casserole. 
A  paper  of  sausage  was  before  her,  with  two  of  Madame's 
glasses  and  a  bottle  of  milk.  In  the  corner  by  the  window 
stood  a  bed  with  a  draped  canopy  and  a  crimson  coverlet 
that  resembled  a  souffle.  Had  you  put  a  marble  down  on 
that  ancient  floor  heaven  knows  where  it  would  have  come  to 
rest,  for  the  whole  room  was  warped  and  distorted,  as  if 
indeed  it  had  just  retired  panting  from  its  struggle  with  the 
house  across  the  street.  Under  the  window  his  canvases 
were  stacked.  Near  the  bed's  head  hung  a  single  devotional 
picture,  a  Virgin  and  Child  in  blue  and  white  and  gilt.  The 
bed  had  to  be  where  it  was  because  of  the  window  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way. 

Then,  before  I  could  make  my  presence  known,  he  flung 
the  guide-book  across  the  room,  sprang  to  his  feet,  opened 
his  arms  wide,  ran  towards  her,  and  clasped  her  rapturously 
to  him. 

"Oh,  darling,  darling!    Isn't  it  simply  ripping — ripping!" 

I  have  never  heard  such  a  cry  of  pure  happiness  from  hu- 
man throat.  He  made  no  attempt  to  kiss  her ;  some  far,  far 
deeper  joy  seemed  to  possess  them.  I  had  the  most  vivid 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  393 

impression  that  this  was  not  the  first  nor  the  second  nor  the 
tenth  time  that  day  they  had  clasped  like  that.  He  was 
laughing  down  at  her,  she  laughing  softly  back.  She  was 
fresh  and  fair  as  a  jonquil — yes,  jonquil-hued  even  to  her 
little  gilding  of  freckles,  as  if  the  flower's  heart  had  burst 
with  a  happiness  like  their  own,  and  spread  its  golden  dust 
around.  And  they  seemed  to  adore,  not  so  much  one  an- 
other, as  some  wondrous  secret  that  existed  between  them. 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  her  stiffen.  She  had  seen  me,  and 
he  had  seen  the  look  in  her  eyes.  Both  heads  turned  swiftly, 
and  they  severed.  I  did  not  move. 

Then  slowly  my  eyes  moved  from  her  face  to  his. 

Not  a  trace  of  change  could  I  distinguish.  He  was  young, 
not  too  young,  grave,  and  filled  with  some  exaltation  that 
did  not  quite  leave  him  as  our  eyes  looked  into  one  another's. 

"I  must  beg  your  pardon,"  I  muttered. 

He  advanced  towards  me.     "Why — Sir  George !" 

Then  swiftly  he  glanced  at  her,  she  as  swiftly  at  him. 

The  next  moment  her  cheek  was  against  my  breast. 

"Are  they  here  ?"  she  murmured  in  a  failing  voice. 

I  did  not  pretend  not  to  understand.  "No,  Jennie,  I'm 
here  alone." 

"How  did  you  know  we  were  here  ?" 

"I'm  staying  in  Dinan  for  a  few  days.  I  saw  you  last 
night." 

She  lifted  her  head.  Again  their  eyes  sought  one  an- 
other's. There  was  something  they  were  aching  to  com- 
municate. 

The  room  had  two  chairs,  one  a  church  chair  with  a  rush 
bottom,  the  other  a  straight-backed  piece  of  carved  Breton 
work,  but  so  old  that  its  colour  had  become  a  dry  dusty  grey. 
He  placed  this  chair  for  me,  and  sat  down  again  on  the  corn- 
bin.  He  was  softly  kneading  his  brown  hands,  as  I  had 
formerly  seen  him  do  in  Cambridge  Circus.  It  is  odd  how 
these  tricks  cling  to  one. 

Then,  his  face  again  transfigured  with  that  undivulged  joy 
they  shared,  he  looked  up  at  me.  Jennie  was  back  at  her 
buttering  again;  apparently  he  was  to  do  the  telling.  I 


394  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

noticed  that  at  any  rate  he  had  not  forgotten  to  buy  her  a 
ring.    He  caught  my  glance  at  it,  and  nodded  joyously. 

"That's  it,"  he  said. 

Once  before  he  had  asked  me  to  talk  French  to  him.  I 
now  had  a  reason  for  speaking  it  unasked. 

"Qu'est-ce  que  veut  dire "  I  said. 

He  laughed  aloud. 

"That's  all  right— you  can  talk  English!  Can't  he  talk 
English,  Jennie?" 

Jennie  nodded. 

"Suppose  you  talk  it,"  I  said. 

"Rather!  I'm  going  to  tell  him,  Jennie.  .  .  .  English? 
Why,  that's  the  whole  thing!  Yesterday  morning  when  I 
woke  up" — he  glanced  towards  the  bed  by  the  window — "I 
hardly  dared  to  believe  it !  They  were  talking  down  in  the 
street  or  somewhere,  and  all  at  once  I  wondered — what  I 
mean  is  that  I  couldn't  quite  catch  it.  It  all  seemed  so  quick 
and  difficult,  just  a  lot  of  jabbering.  Not  a  bit  like  we 
learned  it :  'Je  veux  une  plume,  de  1'encre  et  du  papier' — you 
know.  So  I  lay  there  thinking,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling. 
Then  I  had  an  idea.  I  got  quietly  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the 
door  there."  He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  door  now. 
"I  opened  the  door  and  called  down  to  Madame.  I've  done 
that  every  morning  for  cafe-au-lait,  you  see.  Now  here's  the 
point." 

He  emphasised  the  point  with  a  forefinger. 

"There's  a  Breton  word  for  cafe-au-lait.  Don't  ask  me 
what  it  is ;  I  don't  ever  want  to  hear  it  again.  Anyway,  I'd 
used  that  word  for  three  mornings,  and  that  morning  I 
couldn't  remember  it  for  the  life  of  me.  I  thought  perhaps 
if  I  just  went  to  the  door  and  called  without  stopping  to 
think  it  might  come  of  itself,  but  not  it!  I  had  to  ask  for 
cafe-au-lait,  and  of  course  up  it  came  all  right.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  didn't  say  a  word  to  Jennie.  We  got  up  and 
went  out  sketching.  But  forgetting  that  word,  and  all  the 
French  I  heard  sounding  so  awfully  funny  and  foreign, 
was  on  my  mind  all  the  time.  And  the  next  thing  was  that 
I  forgot  the  word  for  willow — I  happened  to  be  sketching 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  395 

some  willows.  Couldn't  think  of  the  French  for  willow. 
And  all  day  it  was  the  same.  Some  people  came  and  looked 
over  my  shoulder  while  I  was  painting,  but  all  I  could  make 
out  was  the  word  'Salon/  and,  of  course,  that's  just  as  much 
English  as  French. 

"Then  I  started  talking  bits  of  French  to  Jennie,  and  she 
got  a  bit  cross — didn't  you,  sweetheart  ?  She  thought  I  was 
pulling  her  leg  about  her  own  French.  And  so  it  went  on 
all  day,  and  me  getting  more  and  more  excited  about  it. 
Then  at  night  I  told  Jennie  all  about  it.  I  told  her  she'd 
have  to  go  out  and  do  the  shopping,  because  I  simply  daren't 
I'd  had  little  jokes  with  the  shop  people,  you  see,  and  I 
thought  to  myself,  'By  Jove,  if  they  joke  back  now  I  shan't 
have  a  word  to  say!'  You  see  what  I'm  getting  at,  don't 
you?" 

Dismay  filled  my  heart.  So  this  was  the  magnificent  news 
that  had  thrown  them  so  ecstatically  into  one  another's  arms ! 
This  was  what  had  happened  in  the  night  this  time!  He, 
who  the  evening  before  had  sung  to  the  poilus  downstairs, 
had  had  to  send  her  to  do  their  shopping !  Little  enough  to 
rejoice  over,  I  thought.  But  he  went  on. 

"Then  to-night,  just  before  you  came  in,  it  happened 
again.  Some  French  word  or  other,  quite  a  simple  one — I 
just  couldn't  remember  the  English  for  it.  It  was  hardly  a 
moment  before  you  came  in.  I  tell  you  it's  all  going  away 
from  me  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Even  when  I  know  the  words 
my  tongue  won't  pronounce  them  properly.  And  then  you 
came  in.  You  see  what  it  means,  don't  you  ?" 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  managed  to  ask.  It  seemed  to 
me  to  mean  only  one  thing — the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  exulted.  "Why,  it  means  that 
I'm  simply  me — just  myself  and  none  of  this  beastly  Arnaud 
business — a  fresh  start  it  means." 

I  glanced  at  Jennie.  "I  wonder  whether  you'd  mind  get- 
ting another  glass  and  letting  me  share  your  milk,"  I  said. 

Then,  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  "This  is 
simply  the  old  thing  over  again,  Derry.  You've  talked  about 
fresh  starts  before." 


396  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

He  laughed.  "Is  that  all  you  sent  her  out  for?  She 
knows  all  about  it.  Of  course  I  really  started  some  time  ago. 
I  think  I  told  you  so.  All  I'm  telling  you  this  for  now  is 
because  it  absolutely  clinches  it!" 

"How  does  forgetting  clinch  anything?" 

"Because  it  is  forgetting !"  he  cried  triumphantly,  echoing 
and  confirming  my  own  abstruse  meditation  as  I  had  watched 
the  shirley  poppies  over  the  ramparts.  "I  say,  I  mustn't 
shout,  though.  I'm  not  supposed  to  know  any  English  ex- 
cept the  few  words  Jennie's  taught  me.  Great  jokes  we've 
had  about  that !  So  doesn't  this  prove  it  ?  Why,  what  am  I 
doing  remembering  things  all  that  time  ago?  I'm  not  per- 
fectly right  till  I've  forgotten  every  single  thing!  And  I'm 
forgetting  without  trying;  you  can't  try  to  forget.  Heaps 
of  things  have  gone  besides  French — heaps  of  English  things. 
Why,  I've  forgotten " 

"You  remember  me?" 

"Yes.  I  met  you  at  the  Airds.  I  told  you  the  whole 
story  out  at  Le  Port  one  night.  You  can't  have  forgotten !" 

"Hadn't  we  met  before  then  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  had.  There  was  a  pond,  wasn't  there? 
Wasn't  it  at  some  house  with  a  pond  ?" 

"Do  you  remember  a  Miss  Oliphant  ?" 

"Oliphant?  Yes — wait  a  bit — yes  I  do.  I'd  met  her 
somewhere  or  other  too.  But  the  last  time  I  saw  her  was 
when  she  came  for  a  bicycle.  Why  they  should  have  sent 
her  I  don't  know,  but  of  course  I  knew  there  was  a  storm 
blowing  up,  so  I  simply  gave  her  the  bicycle  and  showed  her 
a  few  sketches,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

"You  don't  remember  where  you'd  met  her  before,  do 
you?" 

"I  know  it  was  in  England  somewhere.  But  I  didn't 
know  you  knew  her  till  Jennie  told  me." 

"You  really  didn't  know  I  knew  Miss  Oliphant  ?" 

"Honestly  I  didn't,  Sir  George." 

I  was  silent  as  Jennie  reappeared. 

And  yet,  if  she  knew  all,  as  he  said,  why  the  caution  of 
silence?  It  seemed  to  me  that  with  the  clearing  up  of  one 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  397 

other  point  I  should  have  an  idea  of  how  matters  really 
stood.  I  turned  to  Jennie. 

"Derry's  still  talking  about  the  great  news,"  I  said.  "He 
says  you  know  all  about  it.  Well,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  one 
thing.  Does  he  remember  everything  that's  happened  since 
he  first  saw  you  ?" 

Derry  answered  for  her,  with  a  soft  laugh.  "Do  I  remem- 
ber that !  Why,  it's  all  I'm  going  to  know  presently !" 

"Has  your  'B'  memory  quite  gone?" 

"Quite,  so  far  as  I  can  say." 

"And  your  'A'  is  going,  and  you're  starting  a  brand-new 
one  from  the  moment  you  met  Jennie  ?" 

"Not  'met.'  'Saw.'  That's  it  exactly.  Couldn't  have 
been  better  put." 

"And"— I  hesitated,  but  took  my  fence— "that's  all? 
Nothing  else  has  gone?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sir  George?  Only  the  remembered 
things  are  going.  I'm  the  same,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"The  same  that  you  always  were?" 

"Well" — he  made  a  simple  gesture  with  his  open  hands — 
"if  I  don't  remember  what  I  was  I  can't  very  well  tell  that, 
can  I ?" 

"You  still  do  a  little,  but  it's  going,  and  soon  you  won't  at 
all?" 

"Exactly.     Now  do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  even  unconsciously  he 
was  lying.  I  remembered  his  own  trouble  and  unbelief 
when  it  had  first  occurred  to  him  that  this  astounding  de- 
velopment might  lie  ahead.  Wistfully  he  had  put  it  aside  as 
too  dazzling  to  be  entertained.  "I  suppose  that's  too  much 
to  expect,"  he  had  sighed  as  he  had  put  it  from  him.  But 
now,  unless  he  was  lying  to  me,  to  Jennie,  and  to  himself,  he 
certainly  seemed  to  have  the  proof  of  it.  His  face  had  been 
puzzled  candour  itself  when  I  had  put  my  sudden  questions : 
Had  he  and  I  met  before,  and  did  he  know  a  Miss  Oliphant? 
Vaguely  he  remembered  a  pond,  vaguely  a  Miss  Oliphant  in 
England ;  and  to-morrow  he  was  not  going  to  remember 
either.  My  hazardous  surmise  as  I  had  watched  the  shirley 


398  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

poppies  was  justified,  my  fears  for  the  breaking-up  of  his 
faculties  groundless.  This  was  not  the  break-up,  but  the 
very  confirmation  of  those  faculties,  the  complete  washing- 
out  of  everything  not  inherent  in  himself.  What  next  hap- 
pened in  the  night  would  be  what  happens  to  every  one  of 
us  every  night — the  gentle  and  beautiful  small  forward  step 
to  age.  He  was  all  but  at  the  maximum  of  his  unassisted, 
unhindered  power,  a  white  page  on  which  to  write  anew. 

And  what  a  lovely  manuscript  might  it  not  now  be  made ! 
His  schooling,  the  rudiments  he  had  formerly  acquired  up 
to  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  would  probably  retain ;  but  there- 
after his  life  dated  from  a  certain  moment  when,  by  the 
upcast  glow  of  the  headlights  of  a  French  car,  he  had  seen 
Jennie  Aird's  eyes  looking  into  his.  He  even  spoke  as  if 
his  talk  with  me  that  night  by  Le  Port  gap  had  been  the  be- 
ginning of  his  confidence  in  me.  Not  a  suspicion  did  he 
seem  to  have  that  he  had  made  similar  confidences  before, 
in  his  rooms  in  Cambridge  Circus,  in  that  loft  over  a  South 
Kensington  mews.  That  meeting  of  eyes  across  the  car — 
that  swift  "Who  was  that  with  you  in  the  garden,  George  ?" 
—his  wily  shepherding  of  me  into  the  Dinard  Bazaar — his 
surreptitious  meetings  with  her,  and  his  last  crowning  es- 
capade— these  made  up  the  whole  history  of  his  re-created 
life.  Within  this  perfect  period  he  had  forgotten  nothing 
.  .  .  but  yes,  he  had  forgotten  one  thing.  This  was  his 
promise  to  me.  And  very  likely  he  had  not  forgotten  that  at 
all.  The  chances  were  that  he  had  knowingly  and  delib- 
erately broken  his  word.  And  what  of  it?  Who  was  I  to 
have  extorted  it  from  him?  Could  I  reproach  him  with 
that — now?  Is  the  law  so  hard?  Shall  we  add  to  the 
tortures  of  Tantalus  the  unbinding  of  his  hands,  and  forbid 
him  to  seize  the  fruit  he  thirsts  for?  Let  him  cut  the  knot 
and  take  his  joy!  At  the  worst  he  had  merely  omitted  to 
send  me  a  note  releasing  himself.  And  should  I  speak  of 
that — now  ? 

So,  if  he  was  eighteen,  seventeen,  sixteen,  he  was — simply 
— eighteen  or  seventeen  or  sixteen.  What,  by  that  fact,  mat- 
tered his  birth-certificate?  If  he  was  not  the  age  he  was, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  399 

what  age  was  he?  How  old  are  you?  how  old  am  I? 
We  are  as  old  as  our  knowledge  of  ourselves.  Had  his 
faculties  been  impaired — ah,  that  would  have  been  an- 
other matter.  But  out  of  that  ancient  mould  of  his  former 
history  a  new  sprout  had  pushed,  sweet,  vigorous,  and  iden- 
tical with  itself.  That  shoot  was  Derwent  Rose.  If  it  was 
not  Derwent  Rose  where  then  was  Derwent  Rose  ?  No  Der- 
went Rose  had  died.  If  you  would  find  him  you  must  seek 
him  among  the  living.  Or  if  any  Derwent  Rose  had  died, 
it  was  the  author  of  The  Hands  of  Esau  and  The  Vicarage  of 
Bray.  Dead  indeed  he  might  be;  for  no  link  now  existed 
between  him  and  his  youth,  unlettered  in  anything  but  the 
perfection  of  a  beautiful  love.  He  stood  in  that  sagging 
room  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie,  what  he  was  and  noth- 
ing else.  He  had  been  it  as  long  as  he  had  been  it,  and  nei- 
ther more  time  nor  less.  No  power  on  earth  could  make  it 
otherwise.  No  power  in  heaven  would  have  tried. 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done  ?"  I  asked  presently. 

We  were  all  three  sitting  on  the  corn-bin,  they  together, 
I  nearest  the  table.  They  were  munching  their  bread  and 
sausage. 

"That's  perfectly  simple,"  said  Derry.  "As  I've  told  you, 
that  silly  Arnaud  business  is  all  over.  I'm  Derwent  Rose. 
Nobody  can  say  I'm  impersonating  him,  can  they?  So  I 
must  be  him,  and  if  I'm  him  it's  just  like  anybody  else  being 
themselves.  And  I'm  awfully  sorry  it  had  to  be  tip-and-run, 
but  there  wasn't  anything  else  for  it  at  the  time.  But  that's 
all  over.  I've  got  that  beastly  memory  nearly  off  my  shoul- 
ders. I  don't  know  anybody  in  England.  I  remember  our 
own  village  of  course — in  Sussex  it  was — and  a  few  odds 
and  ends — and  oh!"  He  slapped  his  knee.  "That's  where 
I  heard  the  name  Oliphant!  I  didn't  know  Miss  Oliphant 
in  England  at  all.  There's  a  little  Julia  Oliphant,  but  she's 
only  a  kid,  and  no  relation  at  all  probably.  But  this  one's 
a  bit  like  what  I  could  imagine  little  Julia  growing  up  to  be. 
Never  mind.  What  I  want  to  ask  you  now  is  about  Jennie's 
people." 

"Yes,  Jennie's  people,"  I  said. 


400  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 


It  was  the  drop  of  gall  in  the  honey  of  her  happiness. 
She  would  cut  his  bread  and  sausage,  learn  to  darn  his 
socks,  sew  on  his  buttons,  wash  out  his  handkerchiefs  for 
him;  that  her  hands  as  well  as  her  heart  should  serve  and 
adore  him  was  all  her  joy;  but  I  saw  the  droop  of  her  head 
and  the  tremor  of  that  upturned  lip  that  betrayed  the  pearls. 
Julia  Oliphant  might  hardly  dare,  but  this  one — ah,  she  was 
so  recently  a  child !  I  think  she  would  even  have  left  Berry's 
side  for  ten  minutes  might  they  but  have  been  spent  with 
her  mother's  arms  about  her  and  the  smell  of  her  father's 
pipe  not  far  away.  I  don't  know  whether  a  tear  had  ever 
dropped  on  to  that  ironing-board  of  Madame's  downstairs. 
I  saw  one  drop  now. 

"Yes,  Jennie's  people,"  I  said  again.  "I  suppose  you  want 
to  know  about  them?" 

I  saw  no  harm  in  reminding  him,  at  any  rate,  that  however 
great  things  might  be  happening  to  him,  minor  but  still  im- 
portant ones  were  happening  simultaneously  elsewhere. 
Even  when  you  start  a  new  life  under  the  shadow  of  an  old 
one  you  cannot  entirely  escape  the  world  and  its  ordinary  re- 
sponsibilities. 

"Of  course  we  do,"  he  said,  surprised.  "I'm  going  to 
them  the  moment  things  are  shipshape  again." 

"You  may  see  them  even  sooner  than  that.  I  need  hardly 
tell  you  I  shall  have  to  wire  to  them  immediately." 

He  sighed  a  little.  "Well,  I  suppose  the  music's  got  to  be 
faced,"  he  said  quietly. 

"You're  not  going  to  try  to  give  me  the  slip,  are  you  ?" 

Again  the  surprised  look.  "Of  course  not.  What  have 
I  just  been  telling  you?  That's  the  whole  idea.  If  all  goes 
as  it  is  going  a  couple  of  days  might  put  the  stopper  on  this 
memory  business  once  for  all.  Then  we  shall  go  to  them  at 
once.  I  want  to  get  it  over." 

I  looked  around  the  room  again.  Practically  upon  the 
window-sill  of  it  somebody  across  the  street  was  preparing 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  401 

for  bed.  In  order  to  get  to  that  upper  chamber  of  theirs 
at  all  one  had  to  pass  through  the  public  room  downstairs. 
Everything  about  the  place  sighed  with  age  and  indefinable 
odour ;  one  knew  not  what  mould,  what  sweating  life,  what 
"silver  fishes,"  those  tired  old  walls  did  not  harbour.  I 
don't  think  I  am  too  fastidious,  but  that  was  no  place  for 
that  jonquil,  Jennie  Aird. 

"Look  here,  Derry,"  I  said  suddenly,  "if  it's  a  fair  ques- 
tion, how  much  money  have  you  got  ?" 

He  looked  serious.  "Awfully  little  I'm  afraid.  And  I 
don't  know  where  I'm  going  to  get  any  either." 

"Haven't  you  any — put  away  anywhere  ?" 

"No." 

"What  have  you  been  living  on  ?" 

"What's  left  of  that  five  hundred  francs  you  were  so  good 
as  to  lend  me — that  and  a  couple  of  sketches  I  sold  to  a  fel- 
low at  St  Briac.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  for  that  five 
hundred,  Sir  George." 

"Let  me  see.     When  did  I  lend  it  to  you?" 

"While  I  was  at  St  Briac,  you  remember." 

He  had  forgotten  it  was  his  own  money.  I  rose  from  the 
corn-bin. 

"Very  well.  You  say  you're  not  going  to  give  me  the 
slip,  and  that  you're  going  to  Jennie's  people  the  moment 
things  are  all  right.  Will  you  as  a  first  step  settle  up  here 
and  come  along  with  me  to  my  hotel  now  ?  You  came  here 
to  lie  doggo.  That's  all  over.  This  is  no  place  for  either 
of  you." 

He  blushed  with  embarrassment.  He  hesitated.  But  evi- 
dently the  problem  had  been  worrying  him,  for  he  looked 
frankly  up. 

"I  will  on  one  condition,  Sir  George.  That  is  that  it's 
added  to  the  five  hundred.  I  shall  be  selling  my  sketches 
presently  if  you  can  wait  a  bit.  You're  quite  right;  Jennie 
oughtn't  to  be  here.  But  I  hope  the  Poste  isn't  too  expen- 
sive. I  shall  have  to  pay  you  back  sooner  or  later."  • 

"Well,  that  can  stand  over  for  the  present.  Come  and 
see  the  curtain-wall  or  whatever  it  is  in  the  cellars  of  the 


402  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Hotel  de  la  Poste.  Come  now.  You  can  fetch  your  can- 
vases to-morrow.  Get  your  things  on,  Jennie." 

"They  are  on,"  said  Jennie. 

"Then  just  let  me  leave  you  for  a  minute  or  two." 

I  passed  down  that  fissure  of  a  staircase  again,  opened  the 
door  of  the  cabaret,  and  beckoned  to  Madame.  There,  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  in  complete  darkness  except  for 
the  inch  that  the  door  was  left  open,  we  had  our  low  con- 
versation. 

"Tout  va  bien,  M'sieu'?"  she  asked  with  anxious  sympa- 
thy. 

"Oui,  Madame.  The  coach  will  take  away  your  Cen- 
drillon  immediately." 

"is  it  not  as  I  said  to  my  husband !  And  M'sieu'  Arnaud 
also  goes?" 

"Naturally.  They  will  depart  in  a  few  minutes.  As  for 
their  account,  it  is  I  who  will  regulate  that  if  you  will  pre- 
pare it  for  to-morrow.  And  one  does  not  buy  goodness  of 
heart,  Madame;  nevertheless " 

Nevertheless,  in  the  short  struggle  of  hands  in  the  dark- 
ness, the  hand  that  proffered  and  the  hand  that  refused,  the 
hand  that  proffered  was  the  victor.  I  re-ascended  to  their 
room. 

The  other  time  I  had  not  knocked,  but  this  time  I  did  so. 
They  were  as  I  had  left  them — ready  in  what  they  stood  up 
in.  He  carried  the  little  black  bundle  of  her  necessaries  and 
his  own.  They  took  a  last  look  round  that  warped  and  won- 
derful and  memory-haunted  room.  .  .  . 

But  I  had  given  them  five  minutes  with  its  memories  while 
I  had  negotiated  with  Madame.  .  .  . 

"Ready?"  I  said. 

We  descended  that  interior  crack  for  the  last  time. 

There  was  a  sudden  hush  in  the  kitchen  as  we  entered. 
The  blonde  heads,  the  dark  heads,  turned  above  the  tunics 
of  black  and  horizon-blue,  faces  watched  us  round  the 
stacked-up  kepis  on  the  table.  But  though  probably  little 
else  had  been  talked  of  for  the  last  hour,  none  was  supposed 
to  know  that  I  was  the  Fairy  Godmother  who  had  brought 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  403 

the  coach  for  Cinderella.  Derry  took  no  farewell  of  the 
copains  who,  with  sundry  other  nationalities,  were  the 
French  population  of  France.  Only  Jennie  ran  towards 
Madame  and  was  pressed  for  a  minute  against  a  bosom  well 
able  to  sustain  her  weight.  Derry  got  out  the  bicycles  from 
behind  the  door.  Outside  he  walked  ahead  between  them. 
Jennie  and  I  followed  him  along  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  had  asked  Madame  at  my 
hotel  to  be  so  obliging  as  to  allow  me  the  use  of  her  tele- 
phone. There  was  no  telephone  at  Ker  Annie,  but  there  was 
one  at  the  Beverleys'  hotel,  and  I  knew  that  Beverley  would 
see  to  it  that  a  message  for  Alec  was  delivered  immediately. 
I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  Beverley  what  it  was  all 
about;  I  merely  asked  him  to  send  word  to  the  Airds  that 
I  wished  to  see  them  in  Dinan  to-morrow. 

Then  I  engaged  another  room — an  ordinary  hotel  bed- 
room, where  a  chambermaid  would  bring  up  hot  water  in  the 
morning  and  a  bath  was  to  be  had  for  stepping  across  the 
corridor — just  an  ordinary  hotel  bedroom — not  a  place  of 
memories  and  romance  like  that  tumbling  old  room  over  that 
cabaret  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  sunk  a  yard  into  the  earth 


PART  V 
THE  HOME  STRETCH 


The  next  day  we  were  five  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste.  We 
sat  long  after  luncheon,  on  the  creeper-awninged  terrace  that 
overhangs  the  Petits  Fosses.  The  other  tables  had  long 
since  been  cleared,  but  the  waiters,  smelling  thunder  in  the 
air,  kept  well  away  from  ours. 

My  heart  was  sore  for  Alec  too.  Officially  he  had  been 
driven  to  accept  the  sworn  but  unbelievable  statement ;  in  his 
heart  he  neither  understood  nor  believed  one  single  word  of 
it.  It  was  so  unlike  the  engineering  and  Rugby  football 
that  he  did  understand.  That  to  which  his  mind  always  re- 
turned was  the  plain  meaning  of  these  words :  Treachery, 
Seduction  and  Falsehood. 

Madge's  reception  of  the  incredible  thing  had  been  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  experiences  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 
She  and  Alec  had  arrived  in  Dinan  at  nine  o'clock  and  had 
come  straight  to  my  hotel.  At  a  quarter  past  nine  I  had 
locked  my  bedroom  door  against  the  interrupting  bootboys 
and  chambermaids  who  busied  themselves  on  staircases  and 
landings.  The  morning  stir  also  filled  the  courtyard  below. 
Jennie  and  Derry  I  had  told  to  keep  out  of  the  way  until 
lunch-time.  I  had  hastily  covered  my  bed,  and  Madge  had 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  it.  During  the  whole  of  the  time  I 
had  talked,  half  a  dozen  Alecs  in  the  various  mirrors  had 
met  and  re-met  one  another  as  he  had  paced  the  room. 

First  of  all  she  had  drawn  an  extraordinarily  deep  breath. 
Then  slowly  she  had  pressed  her  fingertips  over  her  eyelids. 
Her  lips  had  moved  under  the  little  eaves  made  by  her  hands. 
She  had  had  the  air  of  trying  to  see  something  anew,  to  see 
a  succession  of  things  anew,  and  to  name  them  as  they  came. 
She  had  sat  there  for  quite  two  minutes,  eyes  hidden,  lips 
moving,  seeing,  repeating.  .  .  . 

407 


408  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Then,  "The  Club "  she  had  breathed. 

And  then,  "Queen's  Gate " 

I  had  found  myself  nodding. 

"His  brother — Arnaud — sketching " 

She  was  well  away  now. 

Then  suddenly  her  hands  had  dropped,  she  had  stared  at 
me,  and  a  shrill  cry  had  broken  explosively  from  her. 

"The  Beautiful  Bear!  Derwent  Rose!  I  knew  it,  I 
knew  it,  I  knew  it!  ...  George  Coverham,  tell  me — is  it? 
Is  it?" 

"It  is." 

"That  afternoon — looking  at  himself  in  the  picture — his 
brother  in  Queen's  Gate — Arnaud — Derwent  Rose — I  knew 
it,  I  knew  it  all  the  time ' 

And  she  had  slid  with  my  coverlet  gently  to  the  floor. 

And  she  did  in  fact  recognise  him — did  pick  out,  as  it 
were  through  some  bright  reversed  telescope  of  time,  that 
still-sealed  but  identical  beauty  of  the  grown  man  she  had 
found  so  superb.  He  was  like,  as  a  son  is  like  a  father,  as 
for  a  fleeting  instant  a  newly-born  babe  may  resemble  a 
grandparent.  She  had  wished  to  meet  Derwent  Rose.  She 
had  now  met  him,  at  this  far  end  of  a  corridor  of  years. 

And  I  had  had  to  pick  her  up  from  where  she  crouched, 
on  a  coverlet  on  my  bedroom  floor. 

But  give  her  a  little  time — the  time  to  pull  herself  to- 
gether— and  you  could  no  more  have  persuaded  Madge  that 
it  was  not  so  than  you  could  have  got  Alec  to  believe  it  was. 

"But  why  wasn't  I  told  all  this  at  once?"  he  had  demand- 
ed, not  twice  or  thrice,  but  twenty  times.  "Are  you  telling 
me  now,  or  am  I  wrong  in  my  head?  Why  didn't  you? 
Why  didn't  you?  Then  he  could  have  been  put  where  he 
belongs — in  the  asylum  yonder " 

And  again,  and  yet  again  :  "You  brought  him  to  my  house, 
you  brought  him  to  my  house!  You  practically  introduced 
him  under  a  French  name — you  didn't  contradict  it  anyway 
—you  knew  all  about  him — and  I  wasn't  told — I'm  only  told 
after  he's  stolen  my  girl !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Cover- 
ham?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  409 

But  I  considered  that  I  had  less  to  reproach  myself  with 
than  he  thought.  I  had  done  everything  in  my  power  to 
isolate  him,  to  keep  her  out  of  his  path.  Madge,  not  I,  had 
asked  him  to  Ker  Annie.  Madge  had  invited  herself  to  his 
hotel  in  St  Briac.  He  had  given  me  his  word,  I  had  trusted 
to  it,  and  he  had  broken  it.  And  had  I  at  any  time  told  Alec 
the  truth  he  would  no  more  have  comprehended  it  than  he 
did  now. 

So  he  had  railed  bitterly  on,  turning  the  nightmare  over 
and  over  again,  meeting  and  re-meeting  himself  in  the  mir- 
rors, very  much  as  Derwent  Rose  had  met  and  re-met  him- 
self in  the  windings  of  his  marvellous  life. 

"Oh,  we're  mad !  We're  all  mad !  Any  chance  of  our 
waking  up?  And  you  talk  to  me  about  somebody  called 
Derwent  Rose  as  if  I  ought  to  know  all  about  the  fellow  the 
moment  you  mention  his  name!  I  never  heard  of  a  Der- 
went Rose  in  my  life!  Who  the  devil  is  Derwent  Rose 
anyway  ?" 

This  at  any  rate  Madge  had  been  able  to  tell  him. 

"But  he  says  he's  never  written  a  book  in  his  life !  Who 
should  know  if  he  doesn't  ?" 

I  made  another  attempt. 

"The  idea,  Alec,  is  that  that  is  a  corroboration  of  the  whole 
thing.  He  doesn't  remember  that  he  ever  wrote  a  book,  and 
I've  a  notion  it  would  be  safer  not  to  try  to  make  him  re- 
member. Another  thing,  Alec.  You  say  I'm  mad.  But 
you  can  have  absolutely  independent  evidence  any  time  you 
like.  Julia  Oliphant's  in  Dinard.  She  knows  nothing  of 
what's  happening  in  this  room.  Go  to  her  and  tell  her,  from 
me,  that  she's  to  tell  you  all  she  knows  about  a  man  called 
Derwent  Rose.  Then  see  what  she  says." 

"And  you  say  you're  going  to  make  a  legal  adoption  of 
something  that's  shaped  like  a  man  but  ought  to  be  kept  in 
a  padded  room?" 

"I  am  if  it's  possible.  The  letter's  written  and  in  the 
box.  All  we  can  do  is  to  wait  till  I've  had  a  reply  to  it." 

"Oh,  we're  all  daft,  we're  all  daft!"  he  had  cried,  his  head 
in  his  hands. 


410  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

And  that  was  still  his  burden — that  we  were  all  daft.  I 
will  not  deny  that  there  seemed  something  to  be  said  for  it. 

My  letter  to  my  solicitors  had  taken  me  the  best  part  of 
the  night  to  write.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  of  the  position  with- 
out divulging  too  much.  Derwent  Rose  existed ;  the  record 
of  his  birth  was  to  be  found  in  Somerset  House  among  the 
files  for  the  year  1875,  and  nowhere  was  there  a  certificate 
of  his  death.  If  Derwent  Rose  as  he  now  in  fact  was  ought 
properly  to  have  been  born  in  the  year  1902  or  thereabouts, 
the  thought  had  come  to  me  that  this  difference  might  be 
bridged  by  my  own  legal  adoption  of  him.  Discreetly  I  had 
asked  for  information  on  this  point.  If  the  thing  was  feasi- 
ble, Derry  would  then  be  George  Coverham's  son,  and  his 
marriage  to  Alec  Aird's  daughter  would  follow  immediately. 
I  had  not  seen  what  fairer  offer  I  could  make,  and  even  Alec 
had  grudgingly  agreed — until  the  whole  thing  had  once  more 
overwhelmed  him,  and  he  had  cried  out  that  we  were  all 
daft  and  ought  to  be  locked  up. 

That  creeper-hung  terrace  at  the  back  of  the  Hotel  de  la 
Poste  will  probably  never  crash  with  its  diners  and  waiters 
down  into  the  moat  below,  but  it  always  looks  as  if  it  might. 
A  few  slender  iron  struts  stepped  on  to  the  old  corbels  of 
the  wall  below  support  it ;  for  the  rest  it  is  suspended  in  the 
air,  high  as  the  nests  in  the  great  elms  opposite,  part  of  the 
ivy  of  the  outer  wall  on  which  the  hotel  is  built.  Save  for 
its  screen  of  creeper  it  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  its  dozen  or 
so  tables  stand  behind  the  great  letters  you  read  from  the 
Fosse  far  below — HOTEL  DE  LA  POSTE. 

And  if  from  the  ramparts  by  St  Sauveur  you  see  the 
shirley  poppies  of  the  sunset  in  the  east,  here  you  see  the 
sun  himself,  burning  intolerable  holes  through  the  elms,  and 
turning  the  creeper  into  a  crewelwork  of  flame  and  the 
valerian  of  the  walls  to  dark  blood. 

But  this  was  only  after  lunch,  with  the  sun  just  outlining 
the  wall  to  our  left  with  brightness  and  shining  on  the  fruit 
and  cheese  and  coffee-cups  which  the  waiters  were  itching 
to  clear  away.  In  the  promenade  below,  absurd  little  hats 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  4" 

put  forth  little  feet,  now  fore,  now  aft,  as  they  went  about 
their  affairs.  Berry's  eyes  were  musingly  on  the  walkers. 
Alec  had  compelled  himself  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  us, 
though  his  own  meal  had  consisted  of  nothing  but  a  bottle 
of  wine.  A  few  moments  before  he  had  uttered  a  grunt, 
that  had  been  understood  to  mean  that,  since  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  wait  for  letters  from  London,  we  might  as 
well  wait  at  Ker  Annie  as  here. 

Suddenly  Derry  removed  his  eyes  from  the  hats  below  and 
looked  at  Alec,  deferentially  but  obstinately. 

"Speaking  for  myself,  sir " 

Though  he  had  nothing  of  Alec  but  his  profile,  he  went  on. 

"If  you  don't  mind  I  shall  not  come.  Sir  George  has  tried 
to  explain  to  you,  and  I've  tried  to  explain  to  you,  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  the  way  I  took.  We've  agreed  it's  no 
good  going  into  all  that  again.  Call  it  my  pigheadedness  if 
you  like ;  I  can't  very  well  object  to  anything  you  call  me ; 
but  I  won't  come.  I'll  come,  if  I'm  still  asked,  when  every- 
thing's settled  up.  And  that  should  be  a  week  at  the  out- 
side." 

Alec  turned.  It  was  plain  that  he  would  loathe  his  son-in- 
law,  when  he  became  that,  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

"It  will  or  it  won't,"  he  growled. 

"It  can't  be  much  longer  than  that,  sir." 

"Can't  it?  Let  me  tell  you  how  it  can.  I  may  have  to 
swallow  that  insane  yarn  for  the  moment ;  you've  left  me 
very  little  choice — took  dashed  good  care  of  that.  But 
you've  got  to  find  somebody  else  crazy  enough  to  get  it  down 
yet." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Alec  ?"  I  interposed. 

"Any  English  parson,"  Alec  flung  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  rose  and  walked  away. 

Derry  sighed  as  his  broad  back  disappeared  into  the  hotel. 
When  you  have  cut  a  knot  it  is  difficult  to  tie  it  again.  The 
straightforward  course  of  his  choice  seemed  little  less 
crooked  than  the  other.  Almost  it  seemed  a  mistake  after 
all. 


412  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

II 

I  perfectly  well  understood  Derry's  scruple  about  going 
to  Ker  Annie.  It  was  the  kind  of  scruple  I  should  have  liked 
a  son  of  mine  to  have.  Except  as  a  husband  he  had  no 
footing  in  that  house,  and  except  as  a  husband  he  refused 
to  enter  it.  I  think  he  would  have  given  much  to  have  been 
able  to  say  that  he  never  had  set  foot  in  it,  but  that  milk  was 
spilt. 

But  Jennie  would  never  be  torn  from  his  side,  and  the 
chances  were  that  Madge  would  not  now  be  torn  from  Jen- 
nie's. So  it  looked  as  if  either  Alec  must  return  to  Dinard 
alone  or  else  stay  with  us  at  the  Poste  and  make  the  best 
of  it. 

Half  an  hour  before  lunch  Madge  had  done  an  odd  thing. 
She  had  called  me  away  for  a  moment  from  Alec's  side,  and 
had  asked  me  in  which  house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie 
I  had  found  them.  She  had  also  wanted  to  know  Madame 
Carguet's  name.  Then  she  had  gone  off.  ...  I  had  seen 
her  embrace  of  Jennie  on  her  return.  Her  hand  now  once 
more  stole  to  Jennie's  as,  with  Alec's  departure,  we  continued 
to  sit  at  the  table. 

Again  Derry  sighed,  but  I  think  it  was  a  little  wilfully  that 
he  dwelt  on  the  gloomier  side,  and  that  it  was  not  altogether 
unmixed  despair.  We  do  allow  ourselves  these  little  lux- 
uries at  eighteen  or  thereabouts. 

"Well,  I've  made  a  lot  of  bother,"  he  sighed. 

Madge  was  half  cross,  half  consoling.  "Oh,  I  expect  it 
will  come  out  all  right  in  the  end,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"He'll  come  round  presently." 

It  began  to  look  as  if  she  herself  had  already  come  more 
than  half-way  round.  And,  now  that  Alec  and  his  thunder- 
cloud had  gone,  a  waiter  ventured  to  advance. 

"Si  on  peut  desservir,  Madame " 

Madge  rose  abruptly. 

"Yes,  let's  go  out.  It's  no  good  sitting  here  getting  mor- 
bid. Which  way  has  my  husband  gone?  Because  just  for 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  413 

an  hour  I'm  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  Come  along, 
let's  all  go  for  a  walk." 

We  left  the  creepered  terrace,  crossed  the  courtyard  of  the 
hotel,  and  came  out  into  the  Place  Duguesclin. 

I  think  I  have  discovered  what  it  is  that  gives  certain 
French  fagades  their  air  at  once  luminous  and  austere.  It  is 
the  roofs  above  them.  Our  flat-pitched  English  roofs  thank- 
lessly send  back  heaven's  light  where  it  comes  from;  but 
these,  steeply  mansarded,  dormered,  and  hog's-backed  again 
above  that — it  is  these  that  flash  it  into  our  eyes  like  mirrors, 
these  across  which  the  shadows  of  the  chimneys  lie,  blots  of 
black  in  the  glitter.  The  fagades  themselves  may  be  flatly 
lighted  or  gloomed  over  with  pastel-like  shade;  it  is  above 
that  everything  happens,  above  that  the  sun,  the  brick  and 
the  shining  slate  play  out  the  drama  of  the  altering  day. 

And  the  sun  was  Lord  of  Dinan  that  afternoon.  He 
turned  the  arcades  of  the  fishmarket  to  barrels  of  blackness, 
but  crowned  the  roofs  beyond  with  flashing  silver.  The  dark 
limes  of  the  Place  Duguesclin  might  drink  up  his  rays  like 
green  blotting-paper,  but  the  east  side  of  the  Square  gave 
them  out  again  as  if  the  pale  paint  and  chalk  and  plaster  had 
been  self-luminous — faint  greens  of  peeling  ironwork,  flaky 
blues  of  closed  shutters,  the  dazzle  of  the  roof,  the  chimneys 
like  tall  dominoes  on  end,  patched  with  bricks  of  rose.  And 
what  a  town  for  him  to  play  with !  The  towers,  the  gates, 
the  ivied  encircling  walls,  are  but  the  outer  shell  of  the  im- 
memorial place;  within  it,  what  pranks  and  gaieties  of  light 
and  under-light  and  hide-and-seek  of  shadows  does  not  his 
Lordship  play !  Derry  began  to  cheer  up.  Eighteen  is  never 
downcast  for  long.  This  father-in-law-elect  of  his  might  sit 
morosely  at  the  same  table  with  them  or  take  his  bottle  of 
wine  to  whatever  table  he  pleased ;  the  sun  would  shine  on 
carved  stone  and  old  painted  wood  just  the  same.  Yes,  Derry 
bucked  up,  and  in  a  bright  voice  began  to  take  command. 

"I  say,  let's  have  a  peep  into  the  Cordeliers,"  he  said.  "It 
was  shut  the  last  time  I  tried  to  get  in." 

Under  the  legs  of  the  Porches,  across  the  street  and  in  at 
the  half -open  portail  we  passed. 


414  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Oh,  yes,  Derry  was  decidedly  better.  He  had  treated 
Alec  with  grave  deference,  if  not  with  entire  submission; 
but  now  less  and  less  did  he  seem  to  consider  himself  a 
culprit.  As  we  passed  along  the  cloisters  he  paused  to  show 
Madge  a  "Ci-gist"  or  a  bit  of  old  woodwork  let  into  a  wall ; 
and  from  these  he  turned  to  the  afKches  and  class-lists  of  the 
wall  on  the  other  side.  His  head  was  high.  He  was  Der- 
went  Rose,  fixed  and  indivisibly.  If  lately  he  had  not  been 
so,  so  much  the  better  these  times  than  those.  He  was  go- 
ing ahead ;  he  was  going  to  marry ;  a  year  hence  might  find 
him  looking  exactly  a  year  older  than  he  looked  at  this  mo- 
ment; and  though  for  the  moment  a  certain  modesty  and 
humility  might  be  due  from  him,  abjectness  and  shame — no. 
He  trod  the  cobbles  and  dalles  lightly  by  Madge's  side.  And 
I  think  that  already  the  rogue  knew  that  he  could  turn  her 
round  his  finger  as  he  pleased. 

For  while  Alec  might  never  have  heard  of  a  novelist  called 
Derwent  Rose,  and  might  secretly  be  rather  proud  of  the 
fact,  she  had  read  every  word  he  had  ever  written.  She 
knew  more  about  it  than  he  knew  about  himself,  since  he 
now  knew  nothing.  Perhaps,  walking  silently  by  his  side, 
she  realised  the  power  and  passion  at  present  folded  up  in 
him,  but  soon  again  to  be  declared.  And  perhaps  she  saw 
even  further  than  his  own  re-creation.  There  is  a  passion 
of  grandmotherhood,  different,  but  even  more  unrelenting 
than  that  tender  rage  that  brings  us  all  into  the  world.  That 
Jennie  should  never  have  married  was  inconceivable ;  Jennie 
was  to  have  married  whom  she  chose ;  and  what,  for  beauty 
and  gentleness  and  knowledge  and  strength,  could  she  have 
chosen  better  than  this?  Were  there  whispers  in  Dinard? 
Madge  was  capable  of  dealing  with  them.  If  there  was  talk, 
then  there  should  be  more  talk,  till  all  was  talked  down.  By 
and  by  Madge  would  start  her  own,  the  authentic  version  of 
the  affair.  And  with  this  young  man  presently  settled  as 
George  Coverham's  adopted  son,  and  Jennie  blushing  and 
brooding  on  the  other  side  of  her,  it  would  be  a  strange  thing 
indeed  if  Madge  Aird,  who  knew  as  much  about  intimate  his- 
tories as  anybody,  could  not  put  some  sort  of  a  face  upon  it. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  415 

Authoritatively  Derry  led  us  through  the  cloisters  and 
under  a  low  tunnel-like  arch.  We  came  out  into  a  bright 
courtyard  with  plane  trees  and  doors  at  intervals  round  it. 

"This  is  what  I  wanted  to  see,"  he  said  smilingly,  but  a 
little  as  if  what  he  wanted  to  see  overruled  everything  else. 
"Especially  that  bit  over  there." 

It  was  a  lime-white  old  court,  with  tourelles  to  the  west 
and  north.  In  its  south-eastern  corner  rose  a  slated  ogival 
turret  with  a  gilded  ornamental  fleche.  An  old  woman  in 
a  lace  cap  was  filling  a  bucket  at  a  tap,  and  from  one  of  the 
dark  upper  windows  came  a  girl's  light  laugh.  Through  one 
of  the  doorways  a  glimpse  could  be  seen  of  school-desks, 
grey  and  cracked  and  dry  as  the  legs  of  the  Porches  them- 
selves. The  tourelle  in  front  of  us  carried  a  little  side-belfry, 
and  its  inch-thick  plaster  had  flaked  off  in  great  maps,  show- 
ing the  rubble  beneath.  And  again  the  sunlight  was  ab- 
sorbed by  the  plane  trees,  but  blazed  on  the  roof,  made  the 
fleche  a  vivid  sparkle  against  the  blue,  and  seemed  to  pene- 
trate into  the  very  substance  of  the  soft  decaying  white. 

"Now  just  come  and  have  a  look  at  this,"  said  Derry, 
striding  across  the  court. 

The  thing  that  he  had  brought  us  to  see  might  almost  have 
passed  unnoticed  in  Dinan,  where  at  every  corner  something 
that  man's  fine  wit  has  carved  has  been  uncarved  again  by 
stupid  and  obliterating  Time.  It  was  no  more  than  a  bit  of 
moulding,  the  upper  edge  of  which  caught  the  sun,  directly, 
making  the  cavetto  underneath  it  a  soft  yellowing  glow. 
But  into  that  rounded  plaster  tourelle  with  the  belfry  a  flat 
door  had  at  one  time  been  placed  without  interruption  to  the 
moulding,  and  in  the  result  the  sun  had  a  frolic  indeed.  For 
no  man  had  designed  that  miraculous  accident  where  curve 
and  flat  met  and  deliciously  quarrelled,  to  be  reconciled  again 
by  the  sun's  laughing  kiss.  Never  did  light  and  its  opposite 
more  sweetly  interchange  and  compose.  ...  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  this  is  my  own  observation.  But  for  Derry 
I  should  probably  not  have  given  it  a  glance.  But  for  him 
it  was  a  thing  to  come  specially  to  see.  He  stood  before  it, 
moving  his  hand  a  little  this  way  and  a  little  that,  as  in  a 


416  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

sparkling  room  one  will  place  one's  hand  over  glass  or  wa- 
ter to  see  whether  it  is  indeed  that  which  makes  the  little 
fairy-ribbon  on  the  wall.  He  peered  underneath,  he  stood 
off,  he  glanced  up  at  the  sun.  With  his  hand  throwing  the 
shadow,  the  sun  and  he  were  partners. 

"What  is  it,  Derry  ?"  I  asked  him. 

He  laughed.  "What  is  it?  I  should  say  it  was  every- 
thing," he  replied.  "Everything  there  is,  and  if  therels  any 
more,  that  too." 

"Are  you  going  to  paint  it,  dearest?"  Jennie  asked. 

He  turned.     "Eh?"  he  said. 

And  there,  in  that  sun-flooded  court,  I  had  a  swift  pre- 
monition. Something  seemed  to  tell  me  that  he  was  not 
going  to  paint  it.  Neither  was  he  going  to  write  about  it, 
nor  even  to  speak  of  it  again.  He  had  no  wish  to  communi- 
cate it  to  any  other  person,  by  any  means  whatever.  That  he 
himself  possessed  the  pure  understanding  of  it  was  enough ; 
he  would  not  even  care  that  any  should  know  that  he  knew, 
so  he  might  but  have  the  bliss  of  knowing.  His  painting  was 
over,  as  his  writing  was  over.  Contemplation,  withdrawal, 
solitude,  the  infinite  soft  ecstasy  of  being  at  one  with  that 
which  is  not  one  self,  though  it  were  but  the  sunlight  on  a 
bit  of  fifteenth-century  plaster — that,  it  now  flashed  sud- 
denly on  me,  was  what  we  might  henceforward  expect. 

And  though  he  understood  all  mysteries,  and  had  all 
knowledge,  yet  he  now  had  something  even  richer  to  profit 
him.  He  had  his  Love. 

"I  should  very  much  like  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  Madge. 

Instantly  he  was  all  graceful  attention.  The  human  de- 
sire for  a  cup  of  tea  was  equally  a  thing  to  be  understood. 

"This  glare  does  get  in  your  eyes  a  bit,"  he  smiled. 
"There's  a  nice  shady  place  not  five  minutes  away." 

As  he  led  us  back  through  the  cloisters  he  all  but  took  her 
arm. 

His  place  was  gratefully  shady.  Through  a  small  teashop 
one  passed  into  a  sort  of  leafy  cage  that,  I  learned,  had  at 
one  time  been  an  aviary.  It  was  empty,  and  at  a  little  rustic 
table  against  the  trellis  we  sat  down. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  417 

"Would  you  mind  ordering,  Sir  George  ?"  he  said.  "This 
is  one  of  my  off-days  for  French,  I'm  afraid." 

I  ordered  tea. 

My  new  premonition  proceeded  to  take  still  further  pos- 
session of  me.  As  he  chatted  with  modest  freedom  to 
Madge  I  fell  more  and  more  into  abstraction.  I  suppose 
that  in  all  the  circumstances  it  was  my  part  to  have  taken 
charge  of  the  conversation,  to  have  guided  it  through  the 
rocks  and  shoals  of  the  difficult  position,  but  I  couldn't. 
Anyway  he  seemed  quite  capable  of  doing  so. 

Capable?  There  was  nothing  of  which  he  was  not  capa- 
ble. And  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  capable  of  nothing! 
For,  supposing  that  my  foreboding  was  right,  what  was  his 
future?  Isolation  and  Oblivion  indeed!  What  man  can 
live,  sufficient  unto  himself,  excommunicated  from  the  world, 
wrapped  in  the  vanity  that  he  is  not  as  others  ?  Who  dare 
dwell  alone  with  Truth?  Is  it  not  our  anchorage  and  our 
joy  to  run  with  our  little  half-truths  in  our  hands  and  to 
thrust  them  upon  our  neighbour,  that  he  may  admire  and 
share  them  with  us  ?  Who  so  great  that  some  such  littleness 
is  not  the  very  leaven  of  his  life?  Derwent  Rose  had  writ- 
ten; Derwent  Rose  had  painted;  and  now  Derwent  Rose 
would  withdraw  himself  to  some  Tower,  shut  the  door  be- 
hind him,  and  be  forgotten  of  men  because  their  affairs  were 
too  small  for  him.  ...  It  was  just  as  well  that  I  was  going 
to  adopt  him.  What  otherwise  would  his  living  be?  In 
what  corner  of  earth  would  he  plant  his  cabbages  and  cherish 
his  perfect  and  unprofitable  knowledge? 

And  would  he  retain  his  simplicity  of  heart,  or  would  he 
harden  into  arrogance,  sour  into  contempt,  and — yes,  it 
had  to  be  faced — once  more  ask  of  God  that  One  Question 
Too  Many?  .  .  . 

And  she,  his  meek  and  sweet  Semele?  How  long  would 
she  endure  this  partnership  of  his  Oblivion?  How  long 
would  it  be  before  she  prayed  that  that  Tower  might  fall  and 
crush  her  into  the  earth  ?  She  was  only  Jennie  Aird,  seven- 
teen years  old,  with  the  nape  under  her  red-gold  hair  hardly 
yet  browned  by  its  exposure  to  the  sun.  Happier — I  cannot 


say;  but  better  perhaps  for  her  had  she  never  seen  this 
lovely  lad  who  was  so  soon  to  be  my  son.  She  had  married 
an  angel,  had  endured  his  caress.  But  she  could  not  follow 
him  to  his  skies. 

It  was  half-past  five  when  we  reached  the  hotel,  and  Alec 
was  there  waiting  for  us.  He  asked  Madge  where  we  had 
been,  and  when  she  said  to  the  Convent  of  the  Cordeliers  I 
am  pretty  sure  that  I  heard  him  mutter  under  his  breath  that 
that  was  exactly  where  "he"  would  spend  his  spare  time — 
hanging  about  a  girls'  school. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you're  staying  here  to-night,"  he  said 
gruffly  to  his  wife.  "I'm  going  back.  I  may  come  again 
to-morrow.  Better  put  a  stop  to  those  inquiries — unless 
they  take  it  into  their  heads  to  bolt  again.  I  shall  probably 
be  here  by  the  nearest  train  to  midday.  I'm  off  now.  Good 
night." 

Poor  fellow !  I  suppose  it  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
kiss  he  could  bring  himself  to  give  his  wife  and  only  child. 

Something,  I  forget  what,  happened  about  our  table  on 
the  terrace  that  night,  and  we  had  to  dine  in  the  room  of 
which  it  was  an  extension.  The  sun  was  having  his  last  and 
most  magnificent  fling  for  that  day.  He  turned  the  room  in 
which  we  sat  to  ebony-black.  The  eye  could  hardly  distin- 
guish in  the  corners  the  neo-Greek  furnishings  of  key-pat- 
tern and  fretted  valances,  of  amphorae  on  pedestals,  of  frieze 
and  dentel  and  sham  black  marble.  But  everywhere  through 
the  ebony  ran  like  wildfire  a  gold  that  the  eye  could  hardly 
bear.  A  waiter  would  be  lost  in  blackness  save  for  a  spot 
of  burning  gold  on  brow  or  nose-bridge  or  knuckle ;  a  glass, 
a  knife-blade  or  the  edge  of  a  plate  would  flash  like  a  dia- 
mond. The  creeper  outside  flamed  like  the  Burning  Bush 
itself ;  you  would  not  have  thought  that  the  head  of  a  woman 
dining  under  it  could  have  flamed  more,  yet  it  did.  And 
the  glass  of  water  she  lifted  pierced  like  a  heliograph  into  the 
room. 

And  it  was  as  we  dined,  not  talking  much,  that  Madge 
capitulated  completely.  The  sun  played  "I  spy"  with  the 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  419 

white  hand  she  suddenly  put  on  Derry's  brown  one.     She 
was  not  speaking  to  me,  but  I  heard. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  dear  boy— you'll  see  it  will  be  all  right— 
be  a  little  patient— his  bark's  ever  so  much  worse  than  his 
bite — and  come  and  say  good  night  to  your  mother  pres- 
ently." 


Ill 

Derry  now  wore  the  English  suit  he  had  worn  on  the  day 
when  he  had  come  to  tea  at  Ker  Annie,  Jennie  the  white 
frock  and  the  little  white  cap  in  which  she  had  stolen  out 
of  the  house  that  night.  I  never  knew  what  became  of  their 
French  clothes.  To  all  appearances  we  were  now  four  Eng- 
lish sight-seers  in  a  place  where  English  sight-seers  are 
bumped  into  at  every  turn.  And  I  must  mention  a  curious 
little  incident  that  occurred  when,  the  next  morning,  after 
breakfast,  we  left  the  hotel  and  strolled  into  the  Church  of 
St  Sauveur  to  see  how  the  little  girls  were  getting  on  with 
their  decoration  for  the  approaching  fete. 

There  is  only  one  decent  piece  of  glass  in  St  Sauveur. 
That  is  the  window  of  the  north  transept  that  looks  down 
on  the  burial-place  of  Du  Guesclin's  heart.  As  we  passed 
among  the  gay  and  lightsome  shrines  Jennie  happened  to 
pause  under  this  window.  I  saw  his  sudden  dead  stop. 

It  is  a  remarkable  thing  when  a  man  does  the  same  thing 
twice  in  his  life,  each  time  for  the  first  time.  He  looked  at 
Jennie  in  St  Sauveur  just  as,  all  those  years  before,  he  had 
looked  at  somebody  else  in  a  village  church  in  Sussex ;  and 
he  had  no  knowledge  of  the  repetition.  She  stood  there,  all 
low-toned  pearls  of  frock  and  cool  dark  apricot  of  face  and 
neck ;  her  hair  peeped  forth  beneath  the  little  hat ;  and  there, 
under  the  mellow  ambers  and  ruby-dust  and  bits  of  green 
that  might  have  been  dyed  in  Dinard's  sea,  for  a  minute  she 
was  aureoled.  .  .  .  She  moved  on,  and  we  followed. 

But  in  that  moment  it  was  not  he  who  had  been  haled 
back  into  that  earlier  time.  That  was  all  over  for  him.  He 


420  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

did  all  anew.     It  was  I  myself  who  had  come  close  to  the 
ghost  of  my  own  youth. 

The  nearest  train  to  twelve  o'clock,  by  which  Alec  had 
said  he  would  arrive,  was  the  one  reaching-  Dinard  at  twelve- 
fifteen.  The  one  before  that,  leaving  Dinard  at  ten-twelve, 
ran  on  certain  days  only,  and  moreover  would  hardly  have 
allowed  Alec  the  necessary  time  in  which  to  stop  the  various 
inquiries  he  had  set  afoot.  Therefore  we  had  a  long  morn- 
ing to  ourselves,  and  it  mattered  little  how  we  spent  it.  In- 
deed it  mattered  very  little  now  what  we  did  with  our  time 
until  my  letters  should  arrive  from  London. 

So  once  more  that  morning,  watching  Derry,  I  seemed  to 
be  watching,  not  the  Derry  actually  by  my  side,  but  a  Derry 
who  had  been  a  stripling  when  I  had  been  in  my  middle 
twenties.  For  example,  a  troop  of  dragoons  clattered  past, 
in  blue  steel  hats,  dark  blue  tunics,  red  breeches,  black  boots  ; 
and  I  saw  the  sparkle  of  his  eyes  at  the  four  red  pennons  they 
carried.  Just  so,  for  all  I  knew,  his  eyes  had  sparkled  when 
he  had  first  seen  the  sentries  at  the  Horse  Guards.  We 
strolled  on  to  the  Porte  St  Louis,  and  under  its  arch  he 
paused.  He  examined  the  portcullis-grooves,  the  remnants 
of  hinges,  the  steep  couloirs  down  which  the  stones  had  been 
rolled  and  the  boiling  water  poured  from  the  guard-room 
above.  I  don't  know  whether  in  his  other  boyhood  he  had 
known  York  or  Sandwich,  but  I  saw  by  his  face  that  his 
memory  reduplicated  those  old  echoings,  the  clanging  of  iron, 
the  hurtling  of  stones,  the  shouting  of  men  within  the  ring- 
ing arch.  Outside  in  the  Petits  Fosses  it  was  the  same.  He 
peered  into  slits,  glanced  at  the  machicolations  aloft,  meas- 
ured salients  and  re-entrants  and  dead-ground  with  his  eyes. 
I  think  he  saw  that  "belier  a  griffes"  again  in  use,  the  stag- 
gering storied  sow  pushed  up  to  the  walls  by  the  horses  and 
oxen  in  the  hide-hung  penthouse  behind.  .  .  .  And  this  same 
man  had  seen  modern  war !  He  had  flung  the  Mills  and  the 
"hairbrush,"  had  worn  a  box-respirator,  seen  wire-netted 
gunpits  and  flame-throwing  and  the  white  puff-balls  follow- 
ing the  aeroplanes  through  the  sky.  Extraordinary,  ex- 
traordinary !  I  could  not  get  used  to  it.  ... 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  421 

At  twelve  o'clock  I  walked  on  to  the  station  to  meet  Alec. 
His  train  was  a  few  minutes  late.  It  drew  up  on  the  farther 
set  of  rails.  At  Dinan  one  walks  across  on  the  level,  and  as 
I  advanced  to  meet  him  I  saw  him  appear  round  the  engine. 

But  not  until  a  moment  later  did  I  see  that  he  was  followed 
by  Julia  Oliphant. 

She  was  dressed  in  travelling-tweeds,  but  it  was  not  the 
tweeds  that  filled  me  with  the  instant  conviction  that  she  was 
departing  and  had  come  to  say  good-bye  to  Madge.  It  was 
rather  something  indefinable  in  her  face.  Nor  had  she  come 
to  corroborate  my  story.  She  and  Alec  had  doubtless 
already  got  that  over,  if  ever  it  could  be  got  over.  She 
greeted  me  with  a  faint  smile,  but  without  speaking.  In 
fact  I  don't  think  that  one  of  the  three  of  us  spoke  during 
the  seven  or  eight  minutes  it  took  us  to  reach  trie  Poste. 

Once  more  something  had  happened  about  our  terrace- 
table.  Perhaps  because  of  the  slight  lateness  of  Alec's  train, 
added  to  the  quarter  of  an  hour  we  had  already  delayed  our 
meal  (for  dejeuner  at  the  Poste  is  at  twelve),  the  only  table 
capable  of  seating  six  had  been  made  over  to  a  party  of 
visitors  who  would  depart  in  little  more  than  an  hour  by  the 
vedette. 

This,  however,  seemed  to  suit  Alec  rather  than  otherwise. 
He  took  Madge  by  the  arm. 

"Then  you  come  over  here,"  he  said  to  her.  "You've  got 
till  six  o'clock  to  talk  to  Julia.  I  want  a  word  with  you 
first." 

"And  I  want  a  word  with  you  too,"  I  heard  her  reply  as 
she  turned  to  follow  him. 

So  Madge  and  Alec  lunched  some  tables  away,  out  of 
earshot,  while  Julia  and  Jennie,  Derry  and  myself,  sat  down 
behind  the  iron  "O"  of  the  sign  HOTEL  DE  LA  POSTE. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Derry  I  think  our  lunch  would  have 
been  as  silent  as  our  walk  from  the  station  had  been.  Jennie 
rolled  bread-pellets  and  fiddled  with  salt.  I  moodily  won- 
dered whether  Julia  would  not  have  done  better  to  have 
taken  her  farewells  with  Madge  as  said  and  have  stayed 
away.  But  it  frequently  happens  that  a  happy  mood  at  the 


422  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

beginning  of  an  acquaintance  sets  the  key  for  the  meetings 
that  follow.  Derry  had  come  off  gaily  best  with  Miss  Oli- 
phant  when,  instead  of  questioning  her  about  that  bicycle 
she  had  fetched  from  St  Briac,  he  had  anticipated  her  and 
had  taken  the  wind  out  of  her  sails  with  smiling  acquies- 
cence ;  and  he  now  was  wreathed  in  ease  and  charm.  There 
was  a  dash  of  the  gentlemanly  devil  about  that  son-elect  of 
mine.  His  grey-blue  eyes  were  frequently  downcast,  but 
when  he  did  lift  them  that  imp  of  fun  and  mischief  peeped 
unmistakably  out. 

"I'd  no  idea  when  I  showed  you  my  sketches  that  morn- 
ing that  you  were  a  painter  yourself,  Miss  Oliphant,"  he 
said  demurely  over  his  soup.  "Jennie  only  told  me  after- 
wards. I  don't  think  that  was  quite  fair  of  you.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  -paint?"  asked  the  man  who  had  stood  before  her, 
stripped  to  the  waist,  with  her  sewing-machine  held  aloft. 

"Very  little  lately,"  said  Julia  composedly. 

"Now  you're  putting  me  off.  But  of  course  I  ought  to 
have  known.  You  can  always  tell  by  the  way  a  person  looks 
at  a  thing  whether  they  know  anything  about  it  or  not.  Do 
tell  me  what  you  paint !" 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  painting  Sir  George's  portrait  one  of 
these  days." 

"Ah!"  A  polite  little  inclination  of  the  head  made  you 
forget  the  mischief  for  a  moment.  "I'm  no  good  at  por- 
traits. Never  dared  try,  in  fact,  except  for  that  sketch  of 
Jennie,  and  you  can  hardly  call  that  a  portrait.  It  would 
take  more  experience  than  I've  got.  You'd  have  to  know  a 
good  deal  about  a  person  before  you  risked  painting  their 
portrait  I  should  think,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

And  that  of  course  was  pure  mischief  again,  for  he  was 
virtually  telling  her,  though  without  words,  that  she  knew 
very  little  about  him  if  she  had  expected  him  to  give  his  in- 
tentions away  by  making  a  fuss  about  that  bicycle.  And 
similarly  unspoken  was  his  daring  little  invitation  to  her — 
to  her  who  had  drawn  him  from  memory  as  King  Arthur, 
in  armour  and  a  golden  beard — "Won't  you  learn  a  little 
about  me  and  paint  me  one  of  these  days  ?" 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  423 

So  I  watched  her  as  she  saw,  for  the  second  time  in  her 
life,  what  I  saw  for  the  first  time  in  mine — the  father  of  the 
man  he  had  been  and  was  to  be  again,  his  acts  and  gestures 
varying  with  a  thousand  accidents  of  circumstance,  but  him- 
self essentially  and  unchangeably  the  same.  You  may 
charge  me  if  you  will  with  laying  claim  to  knowledge  after 
the  event,  but  there  radiated  from  every  particle  of  him  his 
own  yet-folded  potentialities.  His  gentle  mischief  towards 
her  was  the  germ  of  that  masterful  wit  that  had  made  the 
Barnacles  of  The  Vicarage  of  Bray  skip  at  his  pleasure. 
His  good-humour  and  urbanity  and  willingness  to  talk  while 
we  sat  oppressed  and  silent  were,  in  little,  the  qualities  that 
had  bloomed  in  his  mature  work,  The  Hands  of  Esau.  Only 
the  fierce  passion  of  An  Ape  in  Hell  was  to  seek,  and  none 
could  have  said  that  it  did  not  lurk  there,  inappropriate  to 
the  occasion,  therefore  uncalled  on,  but  deep-slumbering 
under  all. 

And  if  I  was  able  to  make  a  dim  guess  or  two  at  these 
involutions,  what  of  this  woman  to  whom  it  was  not  guess- 
ing, but  open  knowledge?  In  her  mind  was  a  parallelism 
indeed !  I  had  seen  one  trifle  for  myself  that  very  morning 
— his  sudden  stop  when  Jennie  had  paused  under  the  window 
of  St  Sauveur;  but  of  just  such  bright  threaded  beads  of 
memories  her  whole  life,  all  of  it  that  was  worth  anything 
to  her,  had  been  composed.  Her  unwavering  love  had  been 
the  string  that  had  held  all  together.  And  not  only  did  she 
sit  there  now  telling,  as  it  were,  these  beads  over,  to  the  last 
one  drowned  at  the  bottom  of  the  pools  of  her  deep  eyes; 
she  had  them  uniquely  and  desolately  to  herself.  He,  who 
had  provided  them,  had  no  part  whatever  in  them.  She 
could  no  longer  say  "Do  you  remember  this  or  that."  He 
remembered  only  from  the  moment  of  his  setting  eyes  on 
Jennie.  As  unconsciously  as  when  he  had  stripped  to  the 
waist  for  her,  as  unknowingly  as  when  he  had  swum  before 
her,  he  now  seared  her  in  his  very  innocence  and  ignorance. 
A  village  church — Sussex  fields  and  lanes — a  day  at  Chal- 
font — another  day  somewhere  else — and  a  week-end  at  my 
house  ...  oh,  the  jewels  were  quickly  counted.  Perhaps 


424  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

she  had  others  of  which  I  did  not  know.  If  so,  they  were 
the  secret  of  the  eyes  that  looked  away  past  the  elms,  down 
on  to  the  walking  hats  in  the  Fosse  below. 

And  he  would  grow  up  again,  but  she  could  only  continue 
her  life.  In  another  twenty  years  he  would  be  as  old  as 
she  was  now ;  but  she,  I  myself  .  .  .  only  Jennie,  only  Jen- 
nie would  be  by  his  side  on  that  distant  day.  At  some  still 
unknown  fireside,  in  some  unguessed  house  or  garden,  they 
would  speak  of  "poor  old  Miss  Oliphant,  poor  old  Cover- 
ham,"  long  since  out  of  the  way.  Different  generations,  dif- 
ferent generations ! 

And — I  cannot  be  sure  of  this,  and  I  shall  never  know — 
but  I  do  not  think  that  by  this  time  he,  who  had  started  the 
whole  mystic  thing,  had  the  least  recollection  of  anything 
whatever  he  had  been  and  done. 

"But  look  here,  Miss  Oliphant,"  he  was  saying.  "Jennie's 
going  to  lie  down  this  afternoon ;  won't  you  let  me  take  you 
for  a  walk?  Let's  go  to  Lehon  or  somewhere.  You  don't 
mind,  do  you,  Jennie?  And" — he  laughed,  perfectly  con- 
scious of  his  charming  and  irresistible  impudence — "it  seems 
awfully  stiff  to  go  on  calling  you  Miss  Oliphant!  Sounds 
so  fearfully  high-and-dry !  Oh,  I  know !  Shocking  scan- 
dal! But  if  you'll  come  for  a  walk  with  me He 

twinkled. 

Jennie  had  not  uttered  a  word.  Nor  had  she  eaten  more 
than  a  few  crumbs.  Suddenly  she  got  up. 

"I'm  going  to  lie  down  now,"  she  said.  Then,  turning 
timidly  to  Julia,  "Can  you  come  with  me  for  just  a  minute — 
Julia?" 

Julia  got  instantly  up,  passed  round  the  table,  and  pre- 
ceded her  into  the  hotel. 

Other  lunchers  also  were  astir.  The  party  of  visitors  who 
had  usurped  our  table  were  settling  up  with  the  waiter. 
Derry  and  I  sat  awaiting  Julia's  return.  Alec  and  Madee, 
at  the  neighbouring  table,  seemed  to  have  finished  their  talk. 
I  did  not  know  what  Alec's  announcement  to  her  had  been. 
What  she  had  said  to  him  I  thought  I  could  guess. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  425 

Suddenly,  after  an  absence  of  barely  five  minutes,  Julia 
reappeared.  She  walked  straight  up  to  Madge  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"What?"  I  heard  Madge's  surprised  exclamation.  "But 
I  thought " 

" by  the  boat,  I  think  .  .  .  ever  so  much  .  .  .  delight- 
ful. .  .  ." 

She  shook  hands  with  them  and  crossed  over  to  us. 
She  looked  straight  into  Derry's  face.  We  were  all 
standing.  The  five  or  six  words  she  spoke  were  as  if 
she  was  telling  those  beads  again.  Each  one  was  isolated, 
bright,  lingering  yet  relentlessly  passing,  a  thank-offering, 
a  prayer 

"So — long — Derry — dear  .  .  .  all — the — best,"  she  said, 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Good-bye — Julia,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  walked  away. 

I  caught  her  up  in  front  of  the  hotel.  Little  groups  of 
people  moved  across  the  lime-shaded  Square,  all  in  one  di- 
rection, seeking  the  Porches  and  the  Lainerie,  leaving  them- 
selves comfortable  time  for  the  vedette.  We  followed  them. 
She  did  not  take  my  arm,  neither  did  any  word  pass  between 
us. 

Under  the  Porches,  past  the  Convent  we  went.  The 
groups  of  people  became  more  frequent  as  they  concentrated 
from  various  luncheon-places.  We  dropped  down  the  steep 
astounding  street  that  is  called  Jerzual.  We  were  nearly  at 
the  Porte,  of  which  the  twelfth-century  portion  is  the  mod- 
ern part,  before  she  opened  her  lips. 

"I  hate  people  who  cry,"  she  said  suddenly. 

Then  she  cfosed  her  lips  again. 

I  supposed  she  meant  Jennie.     I  didn't  answer. 

She  only  spoke  once  more.  This  was  at  the  embarcadere, 
as  she  stepped  on  to  the  vedette. 

"Don't  wait,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  I  shall  be  seeing  you 
in  London  some  time." 

Obediently  I  turned  away. 


426  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

IV 

Alec  had  had  nothing  new  to  say  to  Madge.  Only  the 
variations  had  been  a  little  more  elaborate.  The  thing  was 
as  lunatic  to  him  as  ever,  and  it  all  came  of  not  stopping 
in  one's  own  country.  Things  like  that  never  happened  at 
his  office  in  Victoria  Street  or  on  the  Rectory  Ground  at 
Blackheath. 

"You  can  stay  on  here  if  you  like,  but  I'm  off  back,"  he 
said.  "And  the  next  time  you  catch  me  in  France  or  any- 
where else  foreign  you  can  tell  me  about  it.  And  you  can 
let  me  know  when  they're  married.  Does  that  three-eighteen 
run  to-day,  or  is  that  another  of  their  Sundays-and-week- 
days  excepted?" 

"The  waiter  will  tell  you,"  said  Madge. 

"Damn  the  waiter,"  said  Alec. 

So  there  were  four  of  us  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste. 

I  don't  know  what  happened  to  letters  during  those  early 
September  days  in  Dinan.  Somebody  told  me  they  went  on 
to  Paris  to  be  sorted;  I  only  know  that  it  took  an  uncon- 
scionable time  to  get  an  answer  from  a  place  I  could  have 
got  to  and  back  again  in  a  couple  of  days.  And  as  three,  and 
then  four  days  passed,  I  think  I  could  have  written  a  Guide 
Book  to  Dinan,  so  familiar  with  it  did  I  begin  to  come. 
And  always  it  was  a  laughing,  buoyant,  affectionate  and 
extraordinarily  clever  Derry  who  conducted  us  everywhere. 

Then,  when  finally  my  letter  did  arrive,  it  was  inexplicit, 
and  I  had  either  to  go  to  London  myself  or  write  again.  It 
was  Madge  who  entreated  me  to  stay.  So  I  wrote  my  sec- 
ond letter. 

Often  we  went  out  into  the  surrounding  country  as  a 
change  from  the  town.  Derry  never  touched  a  brush,  never 
once  mentioned  painting.  Occasionally  he  and  Jennie  went 
off  together  somewhere,  but  for  the  most  part  we  kept  to- 
gether. So  far  I  had  to  admit  that  there  was  no  sign  of  his 
young  godhead  being  too  much  for  his  simple  white-hearted 
Semele.  She  adored  him  with  every  particle  of  herself, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  427 

from  the  feet  that  ran  to  meet  him  to  the  eyes  that  continu- 
ally thanked  his  face  for  being  what  it  was.  And  never 
Bayard  nor  Du  Guesclin  nor  Beaumanoir  of  them  all  had 
served  his  lady  with  a  gentler  love  than  young  Derwent  Rose 
had  for  Jennie  Aird. 

One  morning  at  a  little  before  ten  we  went  up  into  the 
Clock  Tower  in  the  Rue  de  1'Horloge.  This  tower,  together 
with  the  belfry  of  St  Sauveur,  is  the  highest  point  of  the 
ancient  town  that  crowns  Dinan's  rock.  Up  and  up  inside 
the  turret  we  mounted,  through  lofts  and  empty  chambers 
and  timbered  garrets,  till  the  stone  gave  way  to  slate  and 
wood  and  lead,  and  the  soft  tock-tocking  of  the  clock  itself 
began  to  sound.  The  clock  is  in  a  room  with  a  locked  and 
glass-panelled  door,  a  machine  of  brass  on  an  iron  table, 
with  a  slow  escapement,  compensated  pendulums,  and  the 
white  hemp  ropes  of  the  weights  disappearing  through  a  hole 
in  the  floor  to  the  stories  below.  On  the  iron  table  stood  an 
oilcan,  and  the  small  indicator-clock  showed  a  few  minutes 
to  ten.  A  circular  piercing  in  the  wall  gave  us  light,  and 
light  also  streamed  down  through  the  opening  where  the 
wooden  ladder  rose  to  the  upper  platform.  We  peered 
through  the  glass  door,  while  "Tock-tock,  tock-tock"  spoke 
the  unhurrying  clock.  .  .  . 

Then  on  the  verge  of  ten  a  large  vane  slipped  and  dis- 
solved itself  into  a  mist,  to  the  murmur  of  moving  wheels. 
Four  times  on  an  open  third  sounded  the  warning  tenor  bell 
overhead;  and  then  the  twin  vane  slipped  and  dissolved. 
There  was  a  clang  that  shook  the  timbers  inside  their  skin 
of  lead.  .  .  . 

"Come  along,  Jennie!"  cried  Derry,  making  a  dash  for 
the  belfry,  while  again  the  bell  thundered  out.  .  .  . 

It  was  two  short  flights  up,  but  Madge  and  I  were  after 
them  in  time  to  hear  the  last  two  strokes.  The  structure  still 
trembled  with  an  enormous  humming.  This  lasted  for  min- 
utes, wave  succeeding  wave,  crests  and  troughs  of  lingering 
sound,  diminishing  but  seeming  as  if  they  would  never  quite 
cease.  Our  eyes  sought  one  another's  eyes  expectantly  as 
we  waited  for  the  last  murmur  of  the  hymning  metal.  .  .  . 


428  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Then  light  voices  floated  up  from  the  street  again,  and 
the  noises  of  the  town  could  be  heard  once  more. 

"Just  look  at  the  view!"  said  Derry,  hanging  half  over 
the  rail. 

But  I  wanted  a  rope  round  my  waist  before  I  approached 
that  rail.  A  head  for  heights  is  not  one  of  the  things  of 
which  I  boast. 

Another  day,  this  time  in  the  afternoon,  we  pulled  in  a 
skiff  a  mile  or  two  down  the  Ranee,  where  men  were  fishing 
with  the  "balance" — the  net  on  the  crossed  bough-like  arms 
that  made  a  dripping  bag  while  the  rope  ran  over  the  pulley 
of  the  pry-pole.  Men  used  the  same  machine  in  the 
days  before  Moses,  they  are  using  it  to-day  on  the  Ranee  and 
the  Yang-tse-Kiang.  It  was  this  vast  antiquity  that  seemed 
to  strike  Derry,  even  more  than  the  fortifications  had  struck 
him,  even  more  than  that  clock  that  tried  to  measure  with  its 
"tock-tock"  something  that  had  no  beginning  and  can  have 
no  end.  Several  times  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking, 
but  each  time  desisted.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said,  no 
word  that,  like  the  clock,  was  more  than  "tock-tock,  tock- 
tock."  And  I  fancied  that  for  a  day  or  more  past  he  had 
talked  much  less,  that  he  was  ceasing  to  talk,  as  he  had 
ceased  to  write,  as  he  had  ceased  to  paint.  He  sat  for  long 
spells  thinking,  as  if  measuring  that  which  was  himself 
against  all  that  was  not  himself  and  coming  to  his  under- 
standing about  it.  ...  He  and  Jennie  had  the  oars.  Sud- 
denly he  gave  a  little  laugh,  very  musical,  and  took  the  oar 
again. 

"Stroke,"  he  said. 

We  set  off  back  up  the  stream. 

We  landed  at  the  Old  Bridge  and  began  the  ascent  to  the 
town ;  but  near  the  Arch  of  Jerzual,  almost  on  the  very  spot 
where  Julia  had  said  she  hated  people  who  cried,  he  stopped 
again.  From  a  dark  interior  on  our  left  had  come  the 
knocking  of  a  hand-loom.  We  entered,  and  Madge  trans- 
lated his  questions  into  French. 

Once  more  he  seemed  to  find  the  same  fascination — the 
spell  of  the  oldest  and  of  the  newest,  the  first  primitive 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  429 

principle  of  which  our  modern  inventions  are  but  elaborated 
conveniences,  man  measuring  his  strength  and  pitting  his 
wit  against  all  that  is  not  man.  So  men  had  fished,  so  they 
did  fish.  So  they  had  woven,  so  they  did  weave.  They  had 
fought  in  steel  caps  with  hand-grenades  in  the  past,  they 
fought  in  steel  caps  with  hand-grenades  still.  And  nothing 
to  be  written,  painted  or  said.  As  it  had  been  in  the  be- 
ginning it  would  be  until  the  end.  A  momentary  life  was 
not  meant  for  the  expression  of  these  things.  They  were 
for  contemplation,  perfect  understanding,  and — silence. 

That  was  on  a  Saturday  evening.  After  dinner  we 
strolled  to  the  Jardin  des  Anglais  again  and  stood  looking 
over  the  ramparts.  There  were  no  shirley  poppies  in  the 
sky  now,  but  a  serene  unbroken  heaven,  a  tender  blue  fad- 
ing to  the  still  tenderer  peaches  and  greys  that  merged  into 
the  darkening  land.  The  cypresses  below  us  were  inky 
black,  the  river  where  the  fishermen  had  fished  a  soft  thread 
of  inverted  sky.  Folk  again  took  their  evening  stroll  round 
the  walls.  None  of  us  spoke.  I  was  wondering  what  Julia 
Oliphant  was  doing  in  London. 

Suddenly  Derry  broke  the  silence.  He  did  so  in  these 
words. 

"It's  all  right  for  Lehon  and  the  Chateau  de  Beaumanoir 
to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  dear  boy,"  said  Madge. 

How  was  she  to  have  known,  how  was  I  to  have  known, 
how  "all  right"  it  was  for  Lehon,  the  Chateau  de  Beau- 
manoir and — to-morrow  ? 


The  chateau  stands  a  bare  mile  out  of  Dinan,  and  we  had 
been  there  half  a  dozen  times  before;  but  Derry  loved  those 
crumbling  old  towers  on  their  upstanding  rock.  It  rises  al- 
most sheer,  buttressed  round  with  the  broken  works,  and 
from  the  talus  to  the  plateau  on  the  top  is  a  network  of  pre- 
cipitous paths.  You  ascend  it  very  much  as  you  can,  and 
the  view  that  is  blocked  as  you  approach  it  breaks  on  you 


430  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

from  the  summit — first  the  sickening  gulf  of  air  at  your  feet, 
then  the  three  or  four  miles  of  the  southward  plain,  and  the 
canalised  Ranee  parting  company  with  its  attendant  road  to 
Tressaint,  ecluse  after  ecluse,  until  it  picks  it  up  again  to- 
wards Evran.  That  is  when  you  look  south.  To  the  north, 
peering  down  through  oak  and  beech  as  you  might  peer  over 
the  edge  of  a  nest,  are  glimpses  of  white  ribbon — the  road 
along  which  you  have  passed.  And  on  the  level  plateau  in 
the  middle,  enclosed  by  oak  and  beech  and  lime,  rubble-built 
but  with  dressed  stone  buttresses,  stands  the  tiny  modern 
Chapel  of  St  Joseph  of  Consolation. 

Jennie  and  Derry  waited  at  the  top  of  the  last  zigzag  for 
Madge  and  myself,  and  then  gave  us  time  to  recover  our 
breath.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  of  a  Sunday  morning,  and 
Dinan's  bells  sounded  lightly  in  the  distance.  They  lan- 
guished almost  like  human  voices  as,  instead  of  quickening 
for  the  final  summons,  they  delayed,  with  longer  and  longer 
intervals  until,  when  you  expected  just  one  more  sweet  note, 
all  was  silence. 

I  think  that  what  gives  that  chateau-crowned  rock  its  air 
of  lightsome  space  is  that  you  come  to  it  from  Dinan,  where 
everything  crowds  upon  you,  the  Porches  trample  you,  and 
the  people  across  the  street  go  to  bed  practically  on  the  sill 
of  your  window.  True,  from  the  ramparts  you  have  sweep 
enough,  but  unless  you  go  there  very  early  you  get  a  medi- 
ocre, unbroken  illumination,  with  every  shadow  hidden  be- 
hind the  face  that  is  turned  towards  you,  and  two  tones 
paint  all,  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  average  of  the 
lighted  land.  So  there  is  little  to  be  seen  from  the  Chateau 
de  Beaumanoir  to  the  north. 

But  turn  your  face  south,  and — ah!  That  is  where  the 
brightness  lies!  That  flat  average  of  greens  and  browns 
disappears,  and  you  are  looking,  not  at  colour,  but  at  Light 
itself !  And  yet  every  shadow  points  directly  at  you.  All 
the  sun  that  there  is  is  on  your  own  face — there,  and  graving 
as  if  on  a  tarnished  silver  plate  a  glittering  outline  round 
every  object  you  see.  Not  a  green,  not  a  brown ;  all  is  grey ; 
but  twinkles  with  a  silver  edge  every  tree  of  Ranee's  valley, 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  431 

and  fuming  silver  is  every  thread  of  house-smoke  that  as- 
cends. That  stretch  of  lock  that  is  lost  again  towards  Tres- 
saint  is  a  needle-flash,  and  you  see  the  summer  clouds  only 
as  you  see  the  poplar-sheddings  that  float  over  the  gulf  in 
June — as  if  save  for  their  edges  they  did  not  exist. 

Then,  turning  your  back  on  the  glitter,  you  see  the  heavy 
browns  and  greens  and  ochres  of  the  ruins  once  more. 

"Do  they  never  open  this  chapel,  I  wonder?"  said  Deny, 
peering  through  the  grille  of  the  closed  door. 

I  peeped  in  after  him.  It  had  a  tiny  altar  with  four 
tapers,  and  a  blue-and- white  pennon  with  a  device  upon  it. 
The  little  porcelain  Virgin  was  blue  and  white  and  gold,  and 
under  the  three  lancet  windows  a  dozen  rickety  chairs  stood. 
The  walls  were  whitewashed,  with  a  picture  here  and  there, 
and  there  was  a  rat-hole  in  the  floor.  A  small  and  very  bad 
rose-window  reminded  me  of  the  window  of  St  Sauveur, 
and  I  turned  away  again. 

We  pottered  about  here  and  there  among  the  scrub  and 
masonry.  Seen  from  above,  the  west  tower,  that  which 
looks  over  to  Trelivan,  is  the  most  complete ;  but  the  one  to 
the  south-west  can  be  entered  by  climbing  down  half-effaced 
steps  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall.  I  descended.  But  there 
was  nothing  to  see  inside  but  the  peep  through  a  single  loop- 
hole. Its  walls  chirped  with  grasshoppers,  and  a  thin  screen 
of  oak  gave  it  a  roof.  I  was  restless,  and  came  out  again. 
I  wanted  my  letters  from  London.  Then  this  interminable 
business  would  be  quickly  finished. 

But  London  reminded  me  once  more  of  Julia  Oliphant,  of 
what  she  was  doing,  of  what  she  would  do.  ... 

Madge  was  waiting  for  me  when  I  re-ascended.  The  oth- 
ers were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  And  we  no  longer  had  the 
ruins  to  ourselves.  Over  by  the  zigzag  path  to  the  east  of 
the  rock  I  heard  voices  and  the  brushing  of  branches.  But 
the  colline  is  so  overgrown  with  shrub  that  it  is  not  difficult 
to  lose  anybody.  Derry  and  Jennie  could  not  be  far  away. 

"I  expect  they're  looking  for  blackberries,"  said  Madge. 

"Then  they'll  be  on  the  sunny  side,"  I  replied;  and  I  led 
her  across  the  shady  plateau. 


432  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Then  suddenly  Madge  saw  them,  for  she  called  "Be  care- 
ful there,  children!"  They  were  standing  on  the  brink  of 
the  southern  tower,  looking  away  into  the  brightness.  Close 
to  them  a  mountain-ash  overhung  the  deep,  and  about  the 
scabious  at  the  foot  of  it  butterflies  hovered,  part  of  the 
airy  light.  Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder,  her  white  frock 
a  luminosity  of  grey  shadow.  About  one  pink  glowing  ear 
her  loosened  hair  was  a  radiance  of  coppery  gold. 

But  the  newly-come  party  was  close  behind  us.  Through 
the  leaves  I  heard  a  rustle  and  a  woman's  voice  suddenly 
raised. 

"I'm  sure  I  saw  him  come  this  way " 

"I  should  get  rid  of  the  little  beast  if  I  were  you,"  a  man's 
voice  growled. 

Then  the  woman's  voice  uplifted  again.  "Pup petty!  Pup- 
petty!  Oh,  you  naughty  boy !" 

The  man  and  the  woman  appeared. 

"Puppetty!  Puppetty!  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  have  you  seen 

anything  of  a  little Good  heavens  alive,  if  it  isn't  Sir 

George  Coverham  !  Of  all  the — fancy  meeting — 

But  I  had  eyes  for  her  for  one  fleeting  instant  only.  All 
at  once  there  had  come  a  stifled  cry  from  Derry.  He  stood 
there,  dark  against  the  morning  light,  embroidered  round 
with  light.  His  eyes  were  immovably  on  that  woman  who 
had  called  the  dog — on  that  Daphne  Bassett  who,  in  years 
that  were  now  clean-sponged  from  his  memory,  had  been 
Daphne  Wade.  Jennie  too  was  staring  at  her,  bewildered 
that  he  should  stare  so.  Her  hand  was  still  on  his  shoulder. 
She  drew  a  little  more  closely  to  him. 

The  struggle  that  began  on  his  darkened  face  was  a  strug- 
gle to  remember  something;  or  perhaps  its  real  beginning 
was  that  he  seemed  to  remember  that  there  was  something 
to  remember.  But  what?  Not  a  book  that  he  had  written? 
Not  a  book  that  she  had  written?  Not  two  books,  of  which 
he  had  written  one  and  she  the  other  ?  He  had  never  writ- 
ten a  book — had  never  dreamed  of  writing  a  book;  he  left 
that  to  clever  people  like  Sir  George  Coverham  and  Mrs. 
Aird— "Mummie." 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  433 

A  picture,  then?  No,  not  a  picture.  He  had  dabbled  in 
paint  for  a  bit — there  was  a  lot  of  stuffy  old  canvas  in  the 
hotel  now — but  it  couldn't  be  that.  ...  He  did  not  look  at 
Jennie.  His  hands  tried  to  put  her  away  from  him.  He 
muttered  hoarsely. 

"Let  me  go,  Jennie,  let  me  go." 

But  she  only  held  him  the  more  closely,  both  arms  now 
wrapped  about  him. 

Then  he  cried  out  sharply,  loudly.  "Let  go — let  go,  I  say 
— and  don't  look — take  your  eyes  away — don't  look  at  my 
face !" 

But  she  would  now  never  let  him  go.  She  would  look  at 
his  face,  yes,  even  though  he  commanded  her  not  to,  be- 
cause of  what  had  already  begun  to  pass  there.  .  .  . 

And  what  that  was  you  may  see  by  turning  back  to  the 
beginning  of  this  book.  Yesterday,  in  the  Tour  de  1'Hor- 
loge,  a  clock  had  prepared  to  strike  the  hour.  It  had  begun 
with  the  soft  fluttering  of  a  vane  that  had  dissolved  into  a 
mist ;  there  had  been  the  murmur  of  mechanism,  those  prepa- 
ratory notes  on  an  open  third. 

But  this  was  not  hearing.  It  was  seeing.  We  all  saw. 
Jennie  saw. 

As  the  hues  of  a  coloured  top  alter  at  a  touch  of  the  fin- 
ger, so  change  began  to  succeed  change  over  that  face  with 
its  back  to  the  morning  light. 

Oh,  by  no  means  violent  ones  at  first.  Quite  gentle  ones. 
We  merely  saw  the  youth  who  had  painted  a  few  pictures, 
the  young  man  who  had  swum  the  Channel,  the  athlete  who 
had  discussed  tides  and  currents  with  boatmen  in  the  Lord 
Warden  at  Dover 

Then  a  certain  acceleration  (though  you  must  understand 
that  this  fantasia  on  Time  that  we  watched  is  but  compara- 
tive, happened  in  a  few  instants,  more  quickly  than  I  can 
write  or  you  read).  Against  the  sun  a  glint  of  golden  beard 
appeared  and  was  gone  in  a  twink.  I  had  once  seen  that 
beard  at  break  fast -time,  in  a  South  Kensington  mews. 

But  oh  my  heart!  Then  a  terrific  leap!  .  .  .  His  whole 
form  bulked,  loomed.  Eleven  years  descended  on  him  like  a 


434  THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION 

Nasmyth  hammer.  He  seemed  to  take  the  very  brain  out 
of  my  head  and  to  put  it,  not  in  France  at  all,  but  into  a 
house  in  Surrey  with  a  pond  in  front  of  it,  while  he,  with  a 
punt-pole  in  his  hand,  brought  a  piece  of  water-starwort 
into  Julia  Oliphant's  hand 

His  arm,  both  his  arms,  were  over  his  face  as  he  tried 
to  hide  it  all  from  her.  No  cry  broke  from  him  now.  But 
her  arms  were  locked  desperately  about  his  waist.  She 
would  never  let  him  go. 

Then  somewhere  a  dog  yapped,  and  at  the  sound  the  hor- 
rible life-slide  ceased.  It  ceased  because  it  could  not  go 
further.  How  could  it  go  further  than  that  side-street  off 
Piccadilly  in  which  the  woman  who  had  written  The  Parthian 
Arrow  had  set  a  dog  upon  the  author  of  An  Ape  in  Hell? 
Already  I  had  started  forward,  but  my  foot  caught  in  the 
scrub,  and  I  found  myself  rolling,  clutching  wildly  in  the 
air  for  something  to  hold. 

But  I  swear  it  was  for  them  and  not  for  myself  that  I 
feared. 

Then,  as  they  slowly  swayed  outward  together  by  the 
mountain-ash,  the  beautiful,  re-transfiguring  thing  happened. 

A  stupid  woman  with  a  wretched  little  pet  dog !  A  rebuff 
on  a  pavement  over  a  miserable  literary  squabble !  Was  it 
for  this  that  the  years  had  changed  on  his  face  as  the  hues 
change  on  a  spinning  top?  Was  that  all  that  this  common- 
place apparition  of  a  woman  had  reminded  him  of?  Why, 
he  had  thought  it  had  been  something  important,  something 
to  do  with  the  peace  of  churches,  the  beauty  of  coloured 
windows,  the  glorious  thunder-roll  from  the  organ!  He 
had  thought  it  had  something  to  do  with  his  boyhood's 
dreams,  aspirations,  vows!  But  only  this!  ...  It  was  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  having  sought  it.  He  had  better  get 
back  to  his  deliverance. 

He  laughed.  The  vane  whirred  in  the  opposite  direction. 
He  began  to  go  back  to  Jennie 

He  swam  back  to  her  across  the  Channel,  knowing  now 
that  she  awaited  him  on  the  other  side 

He  ran  at  Ambleteuse — ran  swiftly  to  her. 


THE  TOWER  OF  OBLIVION  435 

His  eyes  met  hers  in  the  glow  of  the  headlights  at  Ker 
Annie 

Once  more  he  stood  with  her  in  that  Tower  of  dead  and 
forgotten  doves — fled  on  silent  wheels  with  her  through  the 
night — in  that  upper  room  in  the  Rue  de  la  Cordonnerie 
took  her,  stainless,  into  his  own  virgin  arms 

He  was  here  again,  back  at  the  Chateau  de  Beaumanoir ; 
young,  beautiful,  innocent,  grave,  his  arm  dropped  now, 
looking  into  her  eyes,  calling  to  her. 

"Look — look  at  me — yes,  look,  Jennie!" 

"Oh,  my  God,  catch  them !"  Madge  screamed. 

But  I  don't  think  she  saw  what  I  think  I  saw.  Let  us 
say  that  the  scrub  was  treacherous,  that  it  betrayed  his 
foot ;  it  makes  no  difference  now,  for  I  have  no  son.  Why, 
after  all,  go  forward  again  if  going  forward  meant  no  more 
than  that  four-seconds  pilgrimage  from  which  he  had  but 
that  moment  returned?  Better  as  it  was,  neither  forward 
nor  back  nor  standing  still  on  that  edge  of  masonry  or  on 
any  other  edge.  He  drew  her  close  to  him.  Their  lips 
met.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Lord,  Thou  hast  prevented  him  with  sweetness;  he 
asked  life  of  Thee  and  Thou  hast  given  him  length  of  days." 

We  heard  the  parting  of  the  bushes  down  below.  .  .  . 

A  yard  beyond  the  mountain-ash  the  butterflies  continued 
to  hover,  and  past  them  the  silver-flashing  stretch  of  canal- 
lock  by  Tressaint  could  be  seen  once  more. 


EPILOGUE 

I  stood  before  the  Tower  at  the  Chateau  de  la  Garaye. 
No  thrashing-gin  sounded,  for  the  day's  work  was  over, 
and  in  and  out  of  the  empty  windows  of  the  glimmering 
Renaissance  ruin  the  bats  flitted.  Madge,  Alec  and  I  were 
leaving  France  to-morrow.  There  was  nothing  further  to 
do,  there  is  nothing  further  to  write.  I  shall  never  re-visit 
Dinan. 

But  I  did  not  enter  their  Tower.  I  should  hardly  have 
done  so  even  had  not  that  which  showed  in  the  saffron  sky 
seemed  to  forbid  me.  For  it  seemed  to  me  the  perfect  sym- 
bol of  his  end.  It  was  the  old  moon  in  the  new  one's  arms. 

Just  so,  just  like  that  curved  golden  thread,  so  thin  that 
a  few  minutes  before  it  had  not  been  to  be  seen — just  so  had 
that  tender  crescent  of  his  youth  held  that  dim  and  gibbous 
and  ghostly  round  of  his  past.  Just  so  he  had  been  hag- 
gardly haunted,  but  touched  with  golden  innocence  in  the 
end.  And  he  himself  seemed  to  me  to  be  peeping  into  that 
Tower  which  I  did  not  enter,  as  for  ages  other  crescents 
had  peeped  when  the  doves  had  filled  that  hollow  with  their 
crooning  and  no  other  sound  had  broken  the  hush  of  eve. 
And  thenceforward  he  would  always  re-visit  it,  embracing 
with  a  gilded  edge  the  whole  dark  content  of  man. 

But  they  lay  elsewhere.  They  are  not  together,  but  side 
by  side.  Alec  would  not  have  it  otherwise,  and  Madge  did 
not  seem  greatly  to  care. 

The  parallelism  of  their  fair  young  bodies  is  the  closing 
parallelism  of  this  book.  On  his  stone  is  a  discrepancy  that 
commonly  passes  as  a  carver's  error.  They  lie  thus : 

JANET    AIRD  DERWENT  ROSE 

b.  1903       d.  1920       b.  1875        d.  1920 

at  the  Chateau  de  Beaumanoir   at  the  same  Time  and  Place 

aged  17  years  aged  16  years 

R.I.P. 

437 


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